


Children of Violence

by america_oreosandkitkats



Category: Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: F/M, Soviet-Afghan War AU, cold war au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-20
Updated: 2016-06-03
Packaged: 2018-05-21 23:19:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 31,501
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6061861
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/america_oreosandkitkats/pseuds/america_oreosandkitkats
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They’re all still children, playing in a world that their parents and grandparents forged, walking down a path they never had the chance to choose.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Farthest Corner of the World

**Author's Note:**

> With fandom and Tumblr the way that they are, I need to say this before we get started. 
> 
> I want to make it exceedingly, **explicitly** clear—I am not trying to make a political statement with this fic. I am not trying to equate the mujahideen fighters to the Resistance/Rebels. I’m not trying to say that the Soviet Union is the Dark Side/Empire/First Order. Real life is nuanced, messy and weird, and one of the great things about fiction is that it is not. It would never cross my mind to paint reality with such broad strokes, especially considering my profession and area of study.
> 
> I also want to take this time out to thank my betas: [kimpernickleanddime](http://kimpernickelanddime.tumblr.com/) and [ughwhyben](http://ughwhyben.tumblr.com/). Kim has been a dear friend of mine since our OTGW days and the first to drag me down into the Reylo dumpster. Em has been a fabulous new friend to meet in this vast, crazy world that is the Star Wars fandom. Kim, with your eye on the big picture and Em, with your ability to catch all of the little things, the two of you have been instrumental to the forging of this story. Without your encouragement and guidances, Children of Violence would not be what it is today. You both are fantastic. I can’t thank you enough and I couldn't ask for better shipmates.

 

“Kabul is... a thousand tragedies per square mile.”

— Khaled Hosseini, _And the Mountains Echoed_

 

 

 

**PROLOGUE**

They say he disappeared in the summer of ’75.

 

His internship was of the tedious but crucial sort that second year law students find, the type that lead to partnerships in law offices overlooking Farragut Square. He had complained about the workload; maybe that was a lead.

 

He wasn’t married, but he was seeing someone. Tall and blonde, it was said, but no one could find her. It was even more difficult to find someone who could call him a friend, so they talked to his professors. Unusually quiet, was how they described him, but a brilliant strategist.

 

They investigated his fourth-floor Cleveland Park apartment only to find a life suspended in a moment. His otherwise pristine desk contained several pages of draft schedules, with a dog-eared, underlined and circled catalogue of classes next to them. There was no indication of why he had left; it was as though he had vanished, like smoke from an extinguished match.

 

It was enough of a story to make a small corner of the Washington Post Metro paper, to warrant a minute on the five o’clock news. They put up his picture—a graduation photo of a somber man weighted by troubles a twenty-four year old should not bear—with a number and a mother’s heartbreaking plea.

 

When his trail became as cold as the snow that piled up outside the county courthouse, they put everything they had found in a box, no bigger than one for shoes, marked _Benjamin H. Solo_ and wrapped it all up in twine.

 

A knowledge settled between mother and father, like the cream she added to her coffee or the sugar he added to his. Their son wasn’t in Washington. He wasn’t anywhere in the United States. Her stereo hummed about a new Soviet supersonic plane, about peacekeepers moving into Timur. Their son was in Moscow.

 

Mother and father, long divorced and living on opposite ends of I-395, never blamed each other, but their personal shame and disappointment drove the wedge between them deeper. They never spoke to each other again.

 

 

**I**

Rey thinks she’s fifteen years old, because they tell her she appeared on the footsteps of the orphanage on a brisk November day in 1966, during the riots, and couldn’t have been older than five. Since it’s 1976, she supposes she must be fifteen. No one can say for certain how old she is. No one can say with certainty where she is from, or who she is.

 

At first glance, there is nothing remarkable about Rey. She is slightly taller than average height, keeps her mousy brown hair swept back in a messy bun and wears loose beige garments made of linen. She almost blends into the background. At one time, her white skin distinguished her enough, but ever since the Soviets had trickled across the border, even that has become commonplace.

 

Rey doesn’t have much, not even a last name. But she more than makes up for it with her nimble hands, quick mind and sharp tongue. She works at an electronics store just off the main drag of Kabul, close enough to the markets that she can buy fruit before her shift starts and the store always smells like saffron and coriander. The hole-in-the-wall is owned by a man named Hassan, and together with his sons and Rey, they fix and resell Kabul’s wires and switchboards.

 

Hassan is a good man and a good boss. He gives her leeway to negotiate her own prices, pays on time, and teases her like a father would. He invites her to Friday prayers and to family meals; his wife Masooda, who goes by Maz, is a phenomenal cook and weaver of fantastic tales. It’s during the loud moments around the table and quiet moments in the mosque that she can forget, at least for a little while, that she is not alone.

 

The nice thing about Kabul is that it operates in its own space and in its own time. The Soviets have made their presence known— they give funding, counsel and most importantly, roads—and there are some skirmishes in the countryside, but no war. She hears about the other conflicts ablaze around the world, mostly in Latin America instigated by the Americans, but it is a subject she doesn’t have to think about very often.

 

She likes to make figurines from the bits Hassan can’t sell and parts she can’t repair. Rey has a shelf above her bed, and on it are three of those figurines: a plane, a pilot, a woman wielding a melee weapon. Next to her figurines is a small, slim book with red-edged pages, about the Royal Air Force and their wartime escapades. She’s read it so many times, she thinks she already knows what the ecstasy of flight feels like.

 

For a bookmark, she uses a letter. It’s written in immaculate handwriting, with words so endearing that she considers it close to holy. It’s signed by _Papa_. She runs her fingers over the words, the closest she can bring herself to physical affection from a family she’s not entirely sure exists outside her mind.  There’s a line: _I miss you and will be returning soon_.  These words keep her bound within Kabul’s city limits. She won’t even go to Jalalabad for a day trip.

 

Taped to that shelf and fluttering over her head as she sleeps is a photograph she’s had since before she can remember. It depicts a cliffside, white as bone, surrounded by an ocean so blue that she’s certain it’s been altered because there isn’t such a color in her whole world.

 

She shares her apartment with three other women, and thinks with great satisfaction that her life isn’t really that bad.

 

But when the coup happens four years later, and she’s left to wander the increasingly dangerous streets of Kabul alone, she wonders if she made the right decision to stay.

 

 

**II**

He goes by Kirill Ren now. Ben Solo is a concept that only exists in dark, restless nights and at the bottom of a whisky tumbler.

 

But a name change does not change who he is. He still towers over a crowd, even more so on the streets of Moscow than he ever did in Washington. He’s slim, but not skinny; his power comes in the forms of agility and speed. He had to shear his black hair off into a high and tight, but he considers that a small price to pay for the olive green uniform, red shoulder boards and the title _Captain._

 

Ren would have given much more if it meant not working with Captain Evgeni Fedorovich Khaslik.

 

Khaslik, with five brothers in the service, has long been referred to as Hux; Ren thinks the name was after a favorite author, but has never had occasion or desire to ask.  Everyone in the Lubyanka knows that he hates, despises and loathes Hux. In fact, if it were to be discovered that the man owned several pieces of contraband material, and he were shipped off to Siberia for his crimes, Ren would raise a glass to his dismissal and shame. He thinks that Hux feels the same way.

 

Hux is not just a Moscow-bred Party man—securing the nation for future Soviet children is in his blood. His father helped hold back the Nazis in Stalingrad. His grandfather before that served in the Cheka. Hux’s ascension within the KGB has been celebrated, a credit to his family and friends.

 

Ren, on the other hand, was dropped like an atom bomb into the _Komitet_ six years ago. For his service to the Kremlin, for his usefulness as an American with inside knowledge of the Central Intelligence Agency, his handler, Major General Snegiryov, gives him a uniform with lieutenant stripes and hands him off to Hux.  It’s the beginning of their little cold war.

 

It’s 1981 now and although Ren’s Russian has improved, his position toward Hux has not. The personnel of the Foreign Operations Division are wondering when the two Captains will drop their wafer-thin pretences and slaughter each other; there’s a betting pool in the kitchen. Their mutually assured destruction wouldn't be hard, and they could probably get away with it. Hux, a brilliant graduate of Moscow State University, has studied under Snegiryov directly and knows a thousand and one ways to kill a man. Ren is a wolf: meticulous, feral and deadly accurate.

 

It is a chilly April afternoon when Snegiryov calls the two men into his office. He starts off by telling them that they need to get along, or at least pretend to. He closes by informing them that they’re to head a reconnaissance team in the still-smoldering fires of Kabul.

 

It’s an order that ripples through the entire Lubyanka, a foolish order emblematic of the problems that will doom Afghanistan.

 

 

**III**

Rey guesses she’s twenty today. Under normal circumstances, her birthday is a non-issue. But today, and every day since the coup, has not been normal. If she’s twenty that means she’s survived another year in Soviet-occupied Afghanistan. If she’s twenty, that means she’s alive, and if she’s alive, she can keep on living. The sun scorches the sky and burns off the clouds. The days are endless stretches of blue, so it must be June.

 

The score to her life is the _rat-tat-tat_ of machine gun fire, the hiss of RPGs, the whistle of shells, the whirring of helicopter blades and the jets of scrambling MiGs, the rumble of tanks and BTR vehicles. There is no electricity, no water, no heat, no food. The dead from outside villages shuffle their way into the city, seeking a refuge that cannot and will not come. The omnipresent scent of burning chemicals keeps her awake.

 

She scavenges for everything. While she works, she hums a tune: a song whose lyrics she doesn’t know, a melody that sounds as foreign as she looks. Once, she’s lucky enough to find a half-full bottle of vodka and downs the whole thing to bring on sleep. The next morning she wakes up with a massive hangover, made worse by the machine guns.  It doesn't stop her from hoping to find more. 

 

Even miserable, stuck inside without food, Rey considers herself lucky to be in the city. There’s a place where the water hasn’t been contaminated or shut off yet, so people flock in that direction. She overhears two women discussing what’s happening in the surrounding suburbs and villages. Qal’a-e-Qazi is in the hands of the mujahideen now, the woman in green says, but the Soviets have taken that as a challenge. The woman in maroon says that there’s nothing left.

 

There are mutterings too, of girls and young women—Ayda and Isra; Shad, Nazli and Leila—who have disappeared throughout the city. Rey wishes she had more than her fists to defend herself.

 

There’s a raid on her apartment building on Friday, when she’s out keeping to the shadows and to herself. They say they’re clearing out mujahideen supporters. When Rey is told about this, she wonders how much the six year old who lived across the hall could understand the war, let alone influence its path.

 

As she makes her way back to her room, her echoing footsteps against the floor are all she hears. There are stains—streaks of dark red, almost brown— in the concrete. She doesn’t give herself time to mourn.

 

On Tuesday, she realizes that someone new is in the complex. He’s not much taller than her, with wide eyes, a smart mouth and a handsome face. He introduces himself as Oscar and they share a collective five minutes walking down the same long, creaky hallway to the stairwell. He’s muscular in an understated way, and walks with such confidence that when he tells her he’s a contractor, she doesn’t believe it.

 

He calls her Sunshine and she doesn’t correct him. They don’t discuss much more than the weather, but once Rey bids him farewell at the bottom of the stairs she realizes she hadn’t had a real conversation with anyone in the last eight months, and lead pools in her belly. Though she yearns for humanity, she wishes Oscar hadn’t said anything to her. His Dari is good, but she can tell he’s American.

 

And if he’s an American, that means the Americans are _here,_ and if the Americans are here, this war is about to flare up hotter than a brushfire. She decides to keep her distance.

 

Except when Oscar smiles at her and offers to share some of his canned goods in exchange for conversation and story, Rey can’t find it in herself to say no.

 

 

**IV**

It hurts to breathe in Afghanistan, in part because of the altitude, in part because of the permanent haze. The machine guns never stop firing and the tanks never stop rolling, and somewhere in the distance, a town burns under Soviet fire.

 

One of the privates under Ren is a nineteen year old kid from Novosibirsk named Alexei Filipov, who fears Ren like he fears his own mortality. Filipov is not that bright, and as his superior officer, Ren thinks he has no business being in Kabul in the first place. But if Filipov is good at one thing, it’s his uncanny ability to strike up conversation with just about anyone, even out here, in the desolate remains of what was once a residential area. That’s how they find Asif.

 

Before the invasion, Asif studied economics at the university, as the type of dull, persnickety student Ren would have found intolerable if they shared a classroom. His Russian is passable, but what makes Asif an asset is his native Dari and his desperation for something to eat. Ren, who interviews and later approves the use of Asif, thinks that the want of food is something the two of them have in common.

 

They listen to the sounds of the city with old and decaying equipment, working out of what was an elementary school, because Colonel Tereschenko is embroiled in his own interrogations at Pul-e Charki, and honestly doesn’t have time to train and acquaint a new cadre of KGB intelligence barely old enough to remember Czechoslovakia.

 

The elementary school has eight rooms along a narrow hallway, concrete floors and small windows that they board and seal shut. They set up cameras and lights in the rooms on opposite ends of the building, in case they find someone worth containing and interviewing. In a third room, they route the camera feeds to a few small, old television sets for monitoring. Next door to that they set up the machines that allow them to listen to the outside world.  Two rooms serve as their quarters, and in those remaining, they stuff the desks, chairs, the blackboards and their too-light crate of food rations.

 

Asif is skittish, and on the bad days, it takes him five times to interpret, and even then, they can’t be a hundred percent certain that his assessments are worth considering. He’s starting to become a liability and it’s starting to reflect poorly on Ren, much to Hux’s smug satisfaction.

 

On Monday night, Asif comes in from exploring an apartment complex Ren was sure had already been scoured. The fact that he was there in the first place is suspect. While Filipov and Yablonsky listen to his recording, Hux and Ren debrief him on the other side of the room. He stammers, shifts and sweats, more so than normal, but he assures them that the apartment is empty and safe. As if on cue, Yablonsky comes over, reporting that they’ve heard chatter on the tape, a male and a female.

 

Hux considers Yablonsky’s report. After a moment, he dismisses the short blond private and returns his attention to a stammering Asif. In a low, stiff voice, Hux asks him to clarify once more, for the record, his position on the apartment. Asif cracks, starts to cry and mentions something about a daughter who is sick and needs antibiotics or she will die and if she dies he doesn’t know how he’s to live with himself.

 

Ren checks the weapon on his hip—it’s loaded—and stands, casting dark shadows over Asif’s face. He grabs the man by the back of his collar and drags him outside, while Asif struggles and sputters the entire way. Ren tosses him out into the mud and shuts him up once and for all with two shots between the eyes.

 

Out an interpreter, their work goes from slow to a complete standstill. Yablonsky and Filipov listen and re-listen to the stretch of tape from 24:34 to 39:14 until the sun sets and the sky bleeds.

 

It’s Yablonsky who finally speaks up. He says there’s something off about both voices.  Hux listens first and simply states that Yablonsky is overworked and is hearing things.  When Ren listens, however, he almost falls to the floor.

 

“He’s American,” Ren says. Hux scowls and Ren basks in his own petty self-adulation.

 

Those magic words are all it takes to get Colonel Tereshchenko’s attention. He sends out a small extraction team from Zenit Group.

 

While they wait, Yablonsky and Filipov toss possibilities among themselves as to what an American is doing so far from their known presence in Kandahar. They speak quickly and loudly, tripping over one another, trying to reach the most outrageous story and the most brutal treatment he’ll receive.

 

Warrant Officer Arkady Ozerov, grey-haired and a barrel of a man, beckons the officers outside for a word.  He’s inherently gentle in ways Ren doesn’t think befit a war time soldier; prefers reading science fiction to battle, even a battlefield as far removed from bloodshed and anguish as this. He speaks with the officers in grave tones over stale cigarettes.

 

“What are we going to do with the girl?” Ozerov asks as the BTR carrying the Zenit team approaches the school. Ren finishes his cigarette with a long drag and answers Ozerov by stamping out the butt with his heel.


	2. Extraction

“The Russians have done nothing for the people and the people are ashamed of them…someone who does not care for his neighbor cannot be called human.”

—Vasiliy Mitrokhin, quoting local Afghans in a report titled _The KGB in Afghanistan_

 

**V**

Rey hums the melody to the unknown, but familiar song as she winds down for the evening. She pulls the rubber band holding her hair from its messy bun. The sky is a soft purple, the moon is high, full and bright, and there’s the faintest note of juniper in the air, despite the stench of oil and grime.

 

She notices the men from her apartment window and her blood freezes. There’s a team of them, Soviets, about eight strong, a block away but coming up fast. Her heart dives into her stomach and she races out of her home.

 

They charge through the building's main doors with a _bang_ and a cloud of indistinguishable Russian. She’s on the third floor, so there's some time, but not much. She pounds on each door down the hallway and cries out for Oscar and hopes she isn’t drawing the squad’s attention.

 

Oscar pokes his head out from a doorframe a few rooms up, confusion and worry knitting his brow. He motions for her to come inside.

 

She reaches for words and the first thing out of her mouth is, “The Soviets are coming!” in English.

 

The worry on Oscar’s face dissolves into bewilderment. He opens and closes his mouth like he’s about to say something, like a fish without an ocean. “You speak English?” he finally sputters.

 

“You have to get out of here! They must know you’re American!”

 

“I told you I’m just a contractor,” Oscar says.

 

“With due respect, Oscar, we both know that’s a crock of shit.”

 

She can hear them through the floorboards. Oscar dashes to a closet, pulls out a briefcase, and sends it flying out the back window. The crash of metal on the pavement implies there was more than just clothes inside.

 

“What about you?” Oscar asks over his shoulder. He disposes of other pieces of equipment. “You’ve gotta get out of here too.”

 

“I’m nobody,” Rey says. “Don’t you need to contact your people?”

 

The squad is on their floor now. Rey can hardly breathe as Oscar takes her by the arms. “There isn’t time, Rey.” His tone is calm, despite the sheen of sweat on his forehead and the shaking in his hands.

 

She gasps. “How do you know my name?”

 

Before Oscar can answer, the knob is shot off the door in a burst of wood and metal sparks. Rey shrieks as the door is slammed open and she finds herself staring for the first time at the wrong end of a weapon. She can’t understand what they’re saying, but she’s seen enough movies to know that now is the time to put her hands up.

 

The last thing she sees is a rifle butt striking against the side of Oscar’s head and his body going limp. They put a dark cloth over her head. While she screams, writhes and protests, they pull her arms behind her body and slap cuffs on her wrists. She’s dragged outside and stuffed into the back of a rumbling vehicle. There’s a double tap on the car’s body and it lurches forward.

 

 

**VI**

Ren watches the interrogation with an emotion somewhere between boredom and exasperation. The feed is blurry and the sound isn’t great, so it’s hard to understand exactly what’s happening in there, but from what he can tell, Ozerov is doing a fine job leading the interrogation.  He's a master of classic KGB technique, but Poe Dameron, aka “Oscar,” is as impenetrable as the wall that runs through Berlin.

 

“What do you think we should do?” Hux asks, standing over Ren.

 

Ren looks up from the feed and cocks an eyebrow. “ _You_ are asking _me_? You can’t be serious.”

 

“I wouldn’t be if we weren’t backed into this corner,” Hux sneers.

 

They have a binder’s worth of information on Dameron, sent straight from the Lubyanka when they realized who exactly they had on their hands. Hux reaches for the blue folder sitting on the opposite end of the table, opens it and thumbs through the first few pages. He stops on a page titled _Personal Information_. His middle finger slides down the page until it stops on the subhead _Education_.

 

“A Bachelor’s in communications from the Air Force Academy.  Master’s in international affairs, with a focus on Middle Eastern religions and politics.”  Hux gives him a sly glance. “It looks like he went to your university. American?”

 

Ren scowls. “The law school isn’t anywhere near the main campus.”

 

“But you _were_ at the same university at the same time?”

 

Ren rolls his eyes. “I know what you’re trying to do, and it’s not going to work, because honestly, I don’t know the guy.” He glances at the small, hazy screen. Dameron is in the corner, arms and legs crossed with dark smudge down the side of his face.

 

“The girl, then?” Hux offers.

 

Ren stops drumming his fingers on the table. “What about her? Has no one begun her interrogation?”

 

“We thought the American was more important, but her presence is confounding. Why don’t you go in and see what you can pull from her?”

 

“Let Filipov do it. Or Ozerov when he’s done.”

 

“You’re not seriously suggesting I send someone who’s already two hours deep into an interrogation to start up another one?”

 

Ren shrugs.

 

“Look, the girl doesn’t speak Russian. No one in this building speaks Dari. And even if Filipov _did_ speak English, and even if Ozerov _weren’t_ already tangled up in an interrogation, no one in here speaks English as well as you.”

 

It’s not a compliment. Ren sets his jaw. They have a manila envelope, and a slim one at that, for the girl. The tab is marked _UNKNOWN, Rey - 1981_ on the tab.

 

“Fine.” Ren snatches the folder from Hux as he exits the room.

 

 

**VII**

There was once a window behind her, but it’s been boarded and cemented up. The wall is rough and uneven and some corners of wood protrude from its surface. There is a triangle of space, broken off from the wall, where moonlight spills and wind whistles in. Orange wires hang from the ceiling like vines and snake in from a drilled hole in the door and out of the little window. A small lightbulb dangles in the center of the room, winking in the moonlight.

 

It’s cold and she’s thirsty, but she’s not bound, and for that, Rey is thankful. She sits in the corner farthest from the door and fumbles with the seam of her shirt. Her stomach twists and turns as she thinks about Oscar; her fingertips echo her heart as she thinks about her own situation. She hums the tune again.

 

The light flashes on. Its amber glow is weak, but not weak enough to keep Rey from shutting her eyes and blocking it with her arm. The door clicks open and she hears footsteps. Equipment is shuffled into the room; she sees the outline of tables and chairs. Once those are in and everything is settled, the room returns to silence. A pen clicks.

 

When her eyes finally adjust to the light, she drops her arm. There’s a table in here now, two chairs on either side, with one occupied by a man.

 

He’s looking at her, waiting for her. She swallows against the lump gathering in her throat.

 

The man certainly doesn’t look like any Russian she’s ever seen before. His face is a clash of contradictions so stark that it’s almost unsettling. He is equal parts sharp and soft. And the thought occurs to her for a moment so fast that it burns up, like an asteroid falling to Earth, that she has _seen_ this man before.

 

Two minutes go by. Maybe ten.

 

He gestures to the chair across the table and says, “Take a seat.” His voice, a resonant tenor, surprises her. There is no twist of a Russian accent around his English.

 

Her breaths are shallow and painful. “Wh-what do you want from me?” she asks, her voice coming out stronger than she feels.

 

“For you to take a seat,” he says again.

 

In slow movements, without breaking her gaze from the man, Rey pushes herself from the ground and settles into the offered seat. She leans back as far as she can and crosses her arms. The man twirls his pen between his fingers, spider-like.

 

“How have you been treated so far?” he asks, at the same time as she inquires, “Why am I here?”

 

The twirling pen stops. He repeats his question. “ _How_ have you been treated?”

 

She falters under his dark eyes and picks at the grime under her fingernails. “Fine. I guess.”

 

“Miss…” he trails off and waves his hand in a circle, waiting for her to fill in the blank. Rey swallows. An image of that hand striking her face flashes before her eyes.

 

“It’s just Rey, actually.”

 

The man narrows his eyes and presses his lips together in a tight line. “If you’re trying to save your family,” he says, sharp and brusque, “don’t waste your breath. We’re better than the Americans at finding people, even in this backwater outpost.”

 

Rey shakes her head. “I’m not protecting anyone.”

 

“You’re expecting me to believe that _you_ , a white, English-speaking woman, are in Afghanistan by yourself?”

 

She knows how ridiculous it sounds. She nods anyway.

 

The man clicks his pen in rapid succession. It sounds like machine gun fire and makes her skin crawl. She looks away from him and sinks lower into her seat. His attention flickers between her and the small stack of papers before him.

 

“What’s your name?” she blurts out.

 

“Unimportant,” he snaps. The cords in his neck tighten and his jaw sets. She grips the edge of her seat.

 

He looks up. He drags his hand down his mouth, as if he’s annoyed, inconvenienced even, by her terror. The clicking stops and Rey breathes. “Ren,” he says. “My name is Kirill Ren.”

 

A spark rushes through Rey. _Bullshit_ , she wants to say. _Tell me your real name_.

 

“Does that not satisfy you?” Ren asks with a slight head tilt.

 

“Are names supposed to satisfy those who don’t own them?” she responds.

 

His expression remains flat and cold and impossibly unreadable. “Now that introductions are out of the way, let’s begin.”

 

“And then I can go home?”

 

In the ensuing silence, Rey squirms. Ren closes the thin folder and pushes it to the side. His hands practically engulf the thing. She feels tension gather in her neck.

 

“Do you know why you’re here, Rey?”

 

“The American.”

 

“Yes, the American.” He pauses. “You can understand how your being with him on his capture might look to us.”

 

“I do.”

 

“This will be much easier for you, for me, for my superiors and whoever you’re protecting, if you answer me truthfully. Can you do that for me?”

 

Rey nods. Her mouth is dry.

 

“How do you know Oscar?”

 

Even though the question is not unexpected, Rey is suddenly breathless.  Her eyes dart from him to his hands again, to his arms and all she can think is how much larger he is than her and her heart matches the burst of a Kalashnikov out in the distance.

 

She clears her throat before she speaks. “I…I don’t. Not really, anyway.” Her voice wavers.

 

He writes something down. Without looking up, he asks, “Can you be more specific?”

 

“Specific how?”

 

“What does _not really knowing someone anyway_ mean?”  His tone is condescending.

 

“I’m not trying to hide anything,” she insists. “I’ve lived in that apartment since I was sixteen. I’ve always had roommates, three, and they all left in ’78.”  It feels as though the ends of her nerves are on fire.

 

“How do you know Oscar?”

 

“I’ve been by myself for three years.”

 

“How do you know Oscar?”

 

“I don’t!”

 

They ping-pong back and forth for what is most assuredly hours, but perhaps it hasn’t been that long, because the sky is still dark and the air is still cold. Once, Ren calls him _Poe Dameron_. She asks who that is, hoping her inquiry will prove to him that she doesn’t know the man in question. But Ren circles around and asks her again.

 

A muscle twinge crawls up Rey's spine and settles in the base of her neck. She leans against the wall. When she denies knowing Oscar again, she says it through a stifled yawn.

 

Ren slams his hand on the table with a sharp, sudden _crack_ that jostles the fatigue from her body.  “ _This isn’t a game_.”  The room echoes with his wrath.

 

A tremor ripples through her.  “Then why do you keep asking me the same question?”

 

“Because Poe Dameron sure knows a hell of a lot about you.”

 

“We had a _single_ conversation.”  It isn’t strictly true, but she would have nothing to add regardless.

 

His eyes are on her now. “And what was that conversation about?”

 

“Family stories and holiday celebrations.”

 

Ren pulls the folder to him, opens it and takes out what might be the only page in English in the entire docket. He reads out:

 

“ _Rey, last name unknown, is a Caucasian female in her late teens, early twenties. Her Dari is fluent and stronger than her native English, which she speaks in received pronunciation. She has neither family members nor close platonic or romantic relationships in Kabul, and she has made note of her loneliness. Her days begin early, in search of food. Her days run late, as it seems she suffers from insomnia. She treats this with alcohol at times, but mostly chooses not to sleep. She does not own much, but of note are an old letter in English, a photograph of the cliffs of Dover and a book in English about the Royal Air Force. Passages in a chapter on the Battle of Britain are underlined and corners of pages are folded down_.”

 

“Would you like me to continue?” Ren asks.

 

Tears sting her eyes and they threaten to spill over. Rey shakes her head.

 

“Now, I’m going to ask one last time.”  His face is remote, but there is an eerie tension beneath it. “How do you know Poe Dameron?”

 

She’s crying now, big, shoulder-heaving, hot sobs that she muffles with her hands covering her face.  Quivering, she stutters, “I d-don’t know him.”

 

Ren launches to his feet and she yelps, drops her hands. He grasps both edges of the table and pulls himself into Rey’s face. She can smell stale cigarette smoke on his body, she can see the devil in his eyes. She knows, the same way she knows the sun rises in the east and sets in the west, that he is only revealing a small fraction of his true strength.

 

“You’re hiding something from me, and I promise you I’ll find it. _Devochka, ya vsegda polychaiyu to chto khachu_.”

 

His Russian is accented. Rey’s eyes go wide, and the question spills out before she can stop herself: “You’re an American?”

 

Ren slams the side of the table into the wall with a snarl. She jumps. “You _will_ tell me what you know about him!”

 

He punctuates his exit with a slam of the door, the light going dead.

 

 

**VIII**

When Ren re-enters the monitoring room, he doesn’t sit, adrenaline coursing too hard through his body to do more than brace himself on the back of the chair. There is a tin of farsh on the table, open and half eaten, accompanied by other empty tins.  Occupying the other seat is Hux, who shoots him a look laced with contempt.  “What the _fuck_ was that?”

 

Ren bristles. Hux stokes a fury that boils under his skin and in his blood. It gives him the strength to keep standing as Hux spits out, “I wouldn’t even expect an interrogation like that if you were _torturing_ her.”

 

“Go fuck yourself.”  Ren turns his head away sharply. “You’ve got no ground to stand on.”

 

“It would be one thing if this was the first time you’ve pulled this stupid shit, but—”

 

“Name one time.”

 

“Rafikov, Kobeko and Abdulin,” Hux ticks off their names on his hand. Each name has a face that Ren won’t forget. “You had to be forcibly removed from the last one.”

 

“Fine.” Ren stands upright, flings his arms to the side. “If we’re keeping score, let’s talk about Nezhdanova.”

 

Hux fumes and his face twists into a scowl. “Those were different circumstances, and you know it.”

 

“Were they, Hux?”  Scoffing, Ren juts his chin out. “Sounds to me like you’re upset Daddy didn’t hide their records well enough.”

 

“I _earned_ my way into the _Komitet_ , _amerikanets_!” Hux shouts.  His face is flushed nearly purple, a sickly contrast to his hair. He strikes his foot on the ground, takes one step forward. Ren can feel his heartbeat thudding in his neck. He takes small, even breaths through his teeth.

 

“Don’t call me that.” His quiet voice belies the rage that brews under the surface. Ren has the infinitesimal advantage of being just enough taller than Hux that the latter has to look _up_ at him.

 

“ _A-mer-i-kan-ets_.” Each syllable tugs at him. “What did you do to get and keep your title?” Ren can hear the scurrying footsteps of privates Yablonsky and Filipov, dipping into the hallway to listen. Let them hear.

 

“What did _you_ do for those stripes?” Hux repeats.

 

Ren clenches his hands. He imagines his fingers around Hux’s slim neck.

 

There were names he had found in his mother’s home—aliases that took months to pin to real people. But once that was done, phone numbers and addresses and personal routines were easy enough to find. He lured them in with friendship, with curiosity and with a smile they all said reminded them of his father. He took them out with syringes and knives and baseball bats in back alleys behind bars and lobby offices. In the end, there were five. For this, he was told, he was to be rewarded. The reward sits on his shoulders: a blue bar with four stars.

 

“You have no idea what you’re asking me to confess,” Ren whispers.

 

“Snegiryov just wanted an American to add to his collection of Western recruits,” Hux bites out. “You’re no different than Belanger. A trophy.”

 

“And you’re nothing but a disgraced cop in a uniform his father bought.”

 

Ren slams this door on the way out, too.

 

 

**IX**

Food comes in just after sunrise and just before sunset: a mealy substance somewhere between oatmeal and porridge, and a cup of water. Neither have much flavor. She’s taking in so few fluids that requests for the toilet have also dwindled down to two times a day. They don’t bind her when they take her to the outside corner, but the brunet— Filipov, she thinks his name is — does have a rifle squared off at her every time she squats.

 

It’s humiliating, but she’s alive. And if she’s alive, that means she can keep on living, and like everything else, she will live through this too.

 

The setting sun throws long shadows across her room. Even in the low light, the guns haven’t stopped. The crack and rumble of an RPG is new, though.

 

Soon, the sky will darken, the moon will rise, and she’ll be huddled in the corner with chattering teeth. But at this moment, she leaps at the wall, claws at it. If she can grasp its ragged edge, if she can pull herself up, she might be able to see where she is. If she knows where she stands, she can ease some of this vertigo. Rey tries once more, and her fingertips scrape the edge, but gravity yanks her down.

 

Rey rolls over on her stomach and screams into her folded, scraped arms until her throat burns hotter than her fury. Tears leave scorching paths on her cheeks. Her body feels like it’s being ripped in half.

 

It would be incredibly easy to put the blame of her situation on the shoulders of Oscar. _He_ was the American, the one the Soviets were after to start with. But she can’t bring herself to hate him.

 

Against the darkness of war, his kindness had been a small, flickering flame that she kept close to her heart. It was _warm_ and she had been cold for so long. The thought of returning to that night terrified her—of course she would say yes to sharing a meal with him.

 

Per Oscar’s insistence, they had eaten in her apartment. At the time, his request had struck her as odd, but now she finds his logic clear, as irrefutable as the powder-like dust that covers everything in the city.

 

He conjured a stove top from nothing but an empty can of Tab and a blade clipped to his belt. She gaped during the process and applauded when the yellow flames _whooshed_ into existence. Together, they used cups to prop up the burner plate from the cold stove. Atop that, Oscar placed their dinner: beef ravioli prepared especially for them by Chef Boyardee.

 

Once their meal was hot, Rey pushed the makeshift stovetop to the side and fished for a candle in the kitchen. Between her and Oscar, she placed a tall, slender yellow candle and lit it just as the sun slipped behind the horizon. The flickering light cast their faces in gold.

 

When Oscar talked, he didn’t talk about Herat or Kandahar.  He didn’t mention the Pakistanis or the Saudis or even the Americans. He did, however, tell her about his kid sister’s twelfth birthday party and the unmitigated disaster it was. There was a lost chicken involved. He never said where in America he was from, but she imagined a lovely place far from RPGs and machine guns. A place where the skies didn’t hum with bombers.

 

Every story he told ended with her in mirthful tears, clutching her sides. Since the coup and the invasion, she had never laughed so hard. A star burned in him, and she wanted to reach over and embrace him so that she too might carry a bit of the brightness with her. Rey will see him again. _Inshallah_.

 

The light clicks on and washes the dark room in amber. The memory fades and she falls back into reality. When the door opens, Rey springs to her feet and wipes the moisture from her eyes with the back of her wrists. The edges of her stomach ache with dread as Ren enters the room.

 

A bomber flies overhead, the rumble of its engine low and horrendous. Rey’s teeth start to chatter and her limbs shake.

 

“What’s wrong?” he asks. When she says nothing in return, he smirks.

 

On the earth, a loud group of young soldiers ambles along the street. She can’t parse their Russian, but by their tone and their raucous laughter, Rey can’t assume they’re discussing anything less than absolutely vulgar. She hears _devochka_ , a word Ren has called her, and her lip curls. There might be five of them and their boots strike against the cement in muffled _pat-pat-pats_.

 

Machine guns rattle. The sound is louder this time, closer than they’ve ever been.

 

The condescension in Ren’s eyes ignites a fire in her so hot that it burns the horror, the shame, the anxiety like kindling, until there’s nothing left but rage smoldering under her skin.

 

“You’re pathetic,” she snarls.

 

Boots strike against the sidewalk and a new voice outside calls the attention of the soldiers. He shouts to them in a flurry of words that match, in both cadence and intonation, the _rat-tat-tat_ of the firing guns.

 

“So I’ve been told.”  Ren steps to his left. She steps to her right. They circle each other like animals.

 

Vehicles rumble toward the building.  Whether they're UAZs or BTRs, she can’t tell, but their engines smother the confused chatter. Doors open and snap shut. Guns keep firing as their engines roar and they drive off. Her heart, beating loudly in her ears, matches the cadence of the cracking bullets.

 

“Aren’t you going to ask me more questions?” Rey demands. “Drill me for information that I can’t possibly have, so you can win your stupid little war?”

 

He stops, expression twisted in confusion. “What makes you think anything you can say will affect the war?”

 

She comes to an abrupt stop and her mind tumbles with the momentum of his statement. “Then why keep me here?”

 

“Because the Americans want you.” He says it as though it’s as obvious as stating the sun rises in the east.

 

His indifference feeds the fire inside her into an all-consuming inferno. She releases her breath slowly and evenly, trying to stifle the emotion growing on her face. A bead of sweat rolls down her neck.

 

“Why are the Americans even here?”

 

“They’re here because _we’re_ here,” Ren says. His tone has not altered in the slightest.

 

She doesn’t try to hide her derision. “And why are the _Russians_ in Afghanistan? There’s _nothing_ here for you.”

 

“Because our brothers and sisters in the cause have called for our assistance.”

 

Helicopters whir from the direction the bomber departed.

 

Disgust rolls through her. “When you say it like that, it actually sounds like you believe it.”

 

He narrows his eyes. “That’s because I do.”

 

“Is that why you left America?” Her words strike at him and he takes an infinitesimal step backwards. “Because you _believed_ the Soviets?”

 

Scarlet blotches his face and seeps down his neck to the collar of his undershirt. “I didn’t leave the United States.” His voice is low and it sounds like a threat. “I’m not American."

 

“Bullshit.”

 

The word rings through the room, loud, clear, and most importantly, destructive.  Ren’s entire expression collapses like a star might, all at once, into something terrible. A tremor runs up Rey’s spine. She clenches her jaw.

 

Ren closes the small distance between them with two impossibly long strides. Her heart shoots up to her throat.

 

He smells like sweat and nicotine and stale, cured meats. She suppresses a shudder as he towers over her. She keeps her eyes locked with his; his pupils are practically dots of black on a spread of dark brown.

 

“Where are you really from, Captain _Ren_? What’s your real name?”

 

His shoulders twitch. Rey holds her breath and steels her body.

 

But he never hits her. In fact, after a hot breath, he pulls himself away from her.  He presses his lips together and huffs. She takes a step forward.

 

The only thing Rey can hear is their ragged breathing for what feels like an entire rotation of the planet.

 

He turns his back on her. “I’ll be back tomorrow afternoon with more questions,” he mutters, looking over his shoulder.

 

When he leaves, he slams the door. It’s not enough to quiet his rampage. Down the hall, a series of metallic things crash to the floor. His booming voice reverberates off the thick stone walls.

 

The gunfire has stopped, but Rey’s heart still hammers against her ribs.

 

 

**X**

They gather in the supply room, leaving Privates Yablonsky and Filipov to keep watch on the prisoners. Before they begin, Ren takes a count of the rations—thirty in total, each packed with four thousand calories.

 

“I’m not getting anywhere with this guy,” Ozerov says, running his hand through his thinning brown hair.

 

“And you’ve tried everything?” Hux asks with a quirk of his eyebrow.

 

“Of course.” Ozerov rubs his hands together. His burly knuckles are purple and swollen. “But if he says anything at all, he keeps retreading things we already know or unimportant shit from his childhood.”

 

Ren drops his hand from his mouth, palm open as if in offering. “What are your suggestions, Warrant Officer?”

 

Ozerov sighs and shakes his head. “Well, listen, he’s obviously not going to talk to me. I’ve done everything I can. I need a break.”

 

The fact that they all do remains unspoken.

 

“Who else speaks English as well as you?” Hux asks. There’s a hint of satisfaction there, and it makes Ren roll his eyes.

 

“I’m sorry, Captain, but that’s a stupid question and you know it,” Ozerov snaps. “If you’re going to give me a break, and I very strongly suggest you do, Captain Ren has to interrogate him.”

 

And that’s how Ren finds himself at the threshold of Interrogation Room 1, which holds Poe Dameron.

 

They’ve sealed up the window this room once had with cement, like in Interrogation Room 2, but there they had run out of material. Rey at least has a sliver of air and light. Here, there’s nothing but a black so thick it’s almost liquid.

 

The sounds of war are muffled, but not entirely silenced. He can still hear the rattle of machine guns, the whir of helicopter blades and the thunder of RPGs. He can make out the sound of a woman screaming.

 

Each step he takes into the room ricochets off the walls.

 

The amber lightbulb suspended in the center of the room puts out nearly as much heat as it does light. He’s been inside for five minutes and already the small of his back is drenched, his uniform clinging to his skin.

 

A heavy scent rolls over him: body odor, bodily fluids, and if he concentrates hard enough, the slightest hint of sulfur from a recently ejected RPG.

 

Dameron is on the ground, hands bound behind his back and his ankles chained. His face is mottled with bruises both purple and yellow; his left eye is almost entirely shut. Dark, crusted blood trails underneath his nose, in the corner of his mouth, along his hairline. The injury to Dameron’s temple from his initial apprehension has healed to a jagged-edged scab. Ren can only imagine what they’ve done to Dameron under his torn, dirt-encrusted clothing.

 

He swallows and suppresses a shudder. He enters the light.

 

Dameron’s eyebrows shoot up and his good eye goes wide.  He tries to rush to his feet and lunge at Ren, but the shackles around his ankles lock out, and the momentum has nowhere else to send him but straight to the floor. His face impacts the cement with a soft, wet sound. Ren waits patiently as Dameron cries out in pain and lets off a string of curses.

 

“Are you finished?” Ren inquires.

 

Dameron’s strength returns enough to roll over. “I’m going to fucking kill you.”

 

“Right.”  With that deadpan comment, Ren tosses the binder beside him. Dameron flinches upon its impact. Ren brings himself the ground and crosses his legs.

 

“What is that anyway?” Dameron grumbles. “You guys keep bringing it in here.”

 

“It’s your file.”  Ren tilts his head to the side and considers the American for a moment. The shadows, he thinks, make Dameron’s face more appalling than it actually is. Ren opens the book in his lap and turns to page one. “If I have some information to work with, it makes this part a little easier.”

 

Dameron laughs without mirth. “You don’t need a fucking binder with me, man.” He grunts and pulls himself up to sit cross-legged.

 

“Why are you in Afghanistan, Mr. Dameron?”

 

“Why are _any_ Americans in Afghanistan?”

 

“Answer the question, Mr. Dameron.”

 

Dameron shakes his head. He doesn’t smile so much as he bares his teeth, like an animal. “You’re a real piece of fucking work, you know that?”

 

“What agency sent you? DOD? CIA? State?”

 

Dameron scoffs. There is a slight curl to his lip. “The DOD isn’t getting their hands twisted in this mess and you know that. Wouldn’t want to start a world war over little Afghanistan, now would we?”

 

“So you’re here with the Agency.”  The pen pauses in its spinning between his fingers, and Ren writes this down.  “Who’s the girl?”

 

“Her name is Rey.”

 

“ _Who’s_ the girl?”

 

Dameron sneers. He sits back as far as he can and returns to the shadows.

 

The silence is as heavy as the room’s scent, as tangible as the waves of heat. Sweat gathers on Ren’s face. It settles at the nape of his neck; it rolls into his eyes and stings. The documents that make up Dameron’s file press into Ren’s forearms.

 

The light above them hums.

 

It’s Dameron who breaks the void, who turns this liquid place solid.

 

“Do you know how long we looked for you?”  His voice is rough, stretched to the edge of emotion; a hurt so deep that it cannot, will not bleed.

 

Ren cuts down the question with his own. “What are you talking about?”

 

He thinks he sees Dameron recoil.

 

“Your mom and I took that beat up, useless thing you called a truck as far south as Atlanta and as far north as Amherst handing out phone numbers and pictures. Your dad hit Kentucky before he decided to go back home.”

 

“Let’s stick to the questions at hand, Mr. Dameron,” Ren says.

 

Dameron laughs. It’s the driest thing in the room.

 

"What's so funny?" Ren asks.

 

“She cried for you, did you know that?” Dameron’s voice is louder now. “Of course you wouldn’t, you were too busy in _Moscow_ getting your _K-G-B_ stripes.” He spits the acronym and juts his chin in the direction of Ren’s insignia for emphasis.

 

A twinge of anger lights in his gut. Ren focuses on that. “My mother died many years ago, in Smolensk.”

 

Which makes Dameron laugh harder in that shallow, hollow sound. “You’re so full of shit.”

 

“Are you here for just the girl?”

 

“Stop fucking around, Ben! Okay? Just fucking stop it!”

 

Dameron's lips press tightly together.  The strength of Ren’s jaw locks a scream inside. They do not blink, they hardly breathe, trembling under the weight of their own rage.

 

“We need to get back on track here,” Ren, the pride of the Soviet State, says in cool, even tones.

 

“We were devastated, man,” Dameron says. It’s almost a plea. “ _I_ was devastated.”

 

“Mr. Dameron—”

 

Dameron lets off a loud and long groan. “Knock this whole _Mr. Dameron_ shit off. Call me fucking Poe, man. You know who I am. I lived with your parents for a semester after mine died. Even before you ran off, I was calling Ms. Organa _Mom_.”

 

“I don’t have a problem calling my team back in here and beating the shit out of you _again_ if you don’t start cooperating.”

 

“Did you know your dad died?”

 

The words jostle Ben— _Ren_. It’s like crashing through a window, and all the little pieces of glass bear into his skin. His neck tightens.

 

Dameron narrows his eyes. “Yeah. Last year. He’s always had that drinking problem and after you left, after he got back from Lexington, he just went to town. Rolled back into his trailer in Woodbridge and drank until Chazz found him.”

 

When Ren strikes Dameron, he makes sure to use his open palm on Dameron’s damaged eye. His palm stings with the blow, but he can feel the wet, swollen skin split. Dameron cries out, but the sound is swallowed by the darkness.

 

“Just answer the fucking questions, Poe,” Ren snaps.

 

Dameron retreats, but does not speak. The light above them twitches, moving the shadows across Dameron’s face ever so slightly.

 

The air outside the room is much cooler than it is inside. His blood rushes from his face and his legs lose their strength so quickly that Ren thinks he just might faint.

 

 

**XI**

When Rey wakes, the sky is violet, dotted with little silver points. The room is still cold but it will be morning soon. The sun will rise and this room will be warm, manageable. Livable. She shivers.

 

With a heavy arm, Rey reaches up. Her hand swallows the little window and the stars perched in its pane, and she thinks she can feel their warmth against her palm.

 

She closes her fingers and her eyes and pulls back her arm. She imagines pulling herself up, up, up through the window and into the sky, being far away from here.

 

An ache spreads across her chest. It tugs and it tugs until there is a tremor in the back of her mind. She hums the distant melody as the sun stains the dark sky gold.

 

Her lips part, and for the first time since before she can remember, lyrics pour out. “ _And we’ll all go together, to pluck wild mountain thyme_.”

 

The next line sits on the tip of her tongue, on the edge of consciousness. Rey waits for the words to come, but they are buried in the same dark place as where her parents’ faces are held.

  
The sun rises.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for the rush of support after the first chapter!! I hope this second one is just as satisfying! :D
> 
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> 
> [Follow me on the tumbls for questions, fic updates and general flailing about.](http://anothergarbagechute.tumblr.com)


	3. Fractures in the Earth

I am tired and sick of war. Its glory is all moonshine. It is only those who have neither fired a shot nor heard the shrieks and groans of the wounded who cry aloud for blood, for vengeance, for desolation. War is hell.

—William Tecumseh Sherman

 

**XII**

Even though the girl and the American insist they have no information of value to share with them, the team needs to move on. They need to turn their ears back toward the streets of Kabul; they need an interpreter.

 

Filipov was the one to find the utter disaster that was Asif, so Hux tells him to stand down in this mission—which, in all honesty, is a travesty. Yablonsky will make a fine analyst, but he has absolutely no people skills. Ozerov sees this and volunteers to go into the city with him to make sure he doesn’t accidentally get himself killed. It doesn’t hurt that he was stationed in East Berlin back in ’71, so he actually knows something about engaging prospects in a hostile territory.

 

Yablonsky will go two miles east into the city. Ozerov will set up an encampment in whatever abandoned building they can find. They’ll be out for seven days. If they can’t find anyone who is willing to talk, they’ll return, regroup and rework Plan B. If they do find someone, they’ll make a more permanent dwelling. Filipov and Hux will be the ones to deliver supplies. When they brief him, Yablonsky looks like he’s on the edge of death.

 

They send the privates to find a pair of civvies that will fit. They’ve all lost weight since coming here, Yablonsky probably the most. He has to pull his belt into the fourth-to-last notch.

 

Ozerov tells them to fish out some chocolates from the boxes of food rations. “Everybody loves chocolate,” he says. When sweets are hard to come by, people will sometimes talk for as little as an Alyonka. Each box is comprised of slightly different foods, but between the remaining twenty boxes, Ren and Hux are able to find almost a dozen chocolates.

 

Hux, Ren and Filipov send them off in the middle of the night, when the guns and the IEDs are quiet. Yablonsky waves to Filipov, “ _Do skorova_ ,” as they head out. As Ren watches them disappear into the city, he concludes that there’s an eighty percent chance this will end in a phone call to Yablonsky’s mother and Ozerov’s wife.

 

When the sun is high and hot, Ren settles into the Radio Room. Hux, deep into canned goulash, reads from a folder full of documents. Filipov is on the phone with whoever is left at the Rezidentura.

 

Filipov ends the call. Ren takes out the piece of candy he saved for himself and pops it in his mouth. He asks Filipov, who still flinches whenever Ren calls his name, if he knows when the next shipment of food is supposed to come by. Filipov admits that he doesn’t know, and that the Rezidentura told him to call Colonel Tereshchenko. But he hasn’t been reachable in days, they also told him. The private sinks lower into his seat.

 

After a moment of collecting himself, Ren swings to Hux. “What are you reading?” he asks. Hux slides the pile in his direction.

 

It’s a field report discussing mujahideen activities in a village called Jalrez, in the upper Maidan Valley. Forty combatants were killed and eighty-two were wounded. The folder is full of documents similar in length, content and passive tone. It covers the course of the past eight months and is as thick as his thumb.

 

Ren tosses the folder on the table and looks up. Hux is staring out the window, fist tucked under his chin. He’s never seen Hux like this before. “What’s on your mind?” he asks.

 

Hux turns in his seat to face Filipov. “Private Filipov, I need you vacate the premises.”

 

Filipov curls in on himself. He closes his book and stands. Waving a weak salute to the officers, he backpedals until he hits the hallway, then dashes to his left.

 

Hux watches him go. He keeps his gaze trained on the wall across the open door. Its color was once blue, but now it’s faded and peeled back in some places, revealing textured plaster underneath.

 

A helicopter whirs overhead.

 

“Those weren’t mujahid movements,” Hux says finally. He points to the folder. “That one? From a few days ago? That was a wedding ceremony. There are three others just like it in that sheet. Along with at least two funerals. One birthday.”

 

“Where are you getting your intel?”

 

Hux turns to him. There’s a curl in his lip. “I _do_ have more friends than this sorry lot.” Ren snorts at that. “They weren’t there, for obvious reasons, but they’ve heard enough first-hand testimony that they might as well have been.”

 

“Was it as bad as it says here?” Ren splays his fingers over the folder and taps it.

 

Hux leans back. “Probably not. You know how the brass likes to exaggerate.”

 

“How bad was it?”

 

“What’s that phrase you have in America?” Hux strokes his chin. “ _Like shooting fishes in barrel_?” he says, in barely-recognizable English.

 

Ren shoves the folder across the table. Papers spill out and waft toward the floor. He thinks back to Faz and the things she had murmured to him in the bars on M Street, in the hallways at American University, in between the sheets— _do you want to change the world?_

 

Yes, he had said. Again and again and again—yes.

 

Machine guns pop in the distance. The wind howls, dust and sand pelt the building. More helicopters fly south and by southwest.

 

 

**XIII**

It’s raining today, but it doesn’t smell like the rain should. Rey wonders how many times this land will need to be washed before it ever smells right again. A few drops manage to slide in through the little corner window, so she sits under it. The water is cold, but it’s _wet,_ and it smears some of the grime on her arms and legs. She can’t speak Russian, but she knows there isn’t enough water to split between them. The Soviets shower once every three days. She gets splashed with water every five. She’s been splashed twice.

 

For the first time in a long time, the air is not filled with the sounds of war. The pitter-patter that has replaced it is almost tranquil, she thinks. She closes her eyes and lets the memory of peace wash over her.

 

Her mind plays the _adhan_ : the mystical twirling of notes that welcomes its congregates and brings them to their knees before Allah and sounds like leaves floating on a breeze. Rey does not consider herself a believer, but she thinks she _could_ believe; Imam Shafiq made a good argument anyway. And where Imam Shafiq’s argument fell, Maz was there with a wise _shura_.

 

Maz was not a large woman—Rey easily stood at least half a foot over her—but what she lacked in height, she made up for in brusque, cheeky attitude. Maz was less like honey and more like ginger tea: prickly, but nevertheless warm and comforting. She wore large glasses, both in thickness and in circumference, and when it was time to be serious, she would pull them up to the top of her head.

 

There was talk after prayer services one Friday evening before the coup about getting out of the country. Hassan had relatives in Toulon, France: extended and unfamiliar, but still _Yousefzai_ , so if things got bad, that’s where they would go. Maz asked Rey if she had any idea where she would go should things get dark. Rey responded that she had to be in Kabul; she couldn’t leave.

 

The look on Maz’s face was an odd blur between consternation and concern. She pushed her glasses up and took Rey’s hand in hers. Maz’s hands were always soft like silk, no matter how much work they did.

 

“Child,” she said in a firm tone Rey had never heard from her before. “You _have_ to think this through.” Rey had insisted that she was.

 

“The belonging that you seek is not behind you. It is _before_ you. Come with us.”

 

Rey insisted to the point of shouting that Maz was wrong: that the government wasn’t going to the fall and that the Soviets weren’t going to invade and that she _was going_ to find her family. Her real family.

 

It was raining that day too.

 

The amber light burns and the door clicks open.

 

Yablonsky makes two trips inside: first to drag in the table and twice for the fold-up chairs and scuttles out. Of the Soviets, this quiet, shuffling child is her favorite; he has literally never said a word to her, never looked her in the eye. In his wake is Ren.

 

Rey stiffens, but doesn’t stand. It’s only been a few days since she has seen the captain, but already his jaw and chin are covered in thick, dark hair. The hair atop his head also seems a little longer. There’s a dullness to his uniform that she doesn’t remember; the collars don’t stand as stiffly.

 

He settles in his seat, takes out the same manila folder and opens it. He rubs his temples with his left hand and twirls his pen in his right. Without looking up, he says, “You may take your seat at any time now.” The edge that was once there in his demeanor has depleted a bit, like his collar.

 

“I just need you to answer this one, very simple question,” he says. “Then this is all done.”

 

Rey continues to glare at him and she remains on the floor. The wet patches on her shoulders are like ice. It’s not enough to temper her growing contempt; rather, the cold sharpens her fury.

 

He slams his hand on the table. She flinches. “Rey, get over here _and sit down_.” The last three words are said through his teeth.

 

Rey stands. “I will not!” She clenches her hands into fists and locks her arms so tight that her back tenses.

 

Ren is on his feet now, too. He takes a step forward and her heart seizes when he stands before her.  She backs up until she’s hit the corner; his arms cage her in. Icy drops pelt her head. The back of her shirt is thoroughly wet, and she shivers. Rain splashes on his face and his bangs almost touch her forehead.

 

Rey can count the sunspots across his nose and on his cheeks. She can see the rhythm of his heartbeat in his neck. “I don’t know Poe Dameron,” she says. They’re close enough now that she doesn’t have to shout, but she does anyway. “I don’t know _him_ or _Oscar_. I don’t know anyone else involved here.” She gestures to the ground. Quieter now, she adds, “You can ask me until the sun swallows the Earth, I don’t care, but my answer will not change.”

 

Ren is close, so close, and the heat emanates from him like a fire blazing across the steppe. The little hairs on the back of her neck stand straight up. “You are going to tell me what you _do_ know.”

 

***

 

Lightning cracks against the darkened sky.

 

Rey is on the floor. She lies on her back, arms folded behind her head and her attention focused squarely on the small window. There’s a boom of thunder.

 

Ren fires his pen again. Rey closes her eyes and holds her breath and waits for it to stop.

 

“Fine,” he says with a voice as raw as hers feels. She hears him toss the pen across the table. “Fine.”

 

She pulls herself up and off the floor.

 

“We’ve been at this for days. Almost two weeks. Either you’ve got the makings of a spy in you, and if so, please let me know. I’ll contact my supervisors. Or you really, honest to God, don’t know Poe Dameron.”

 

Rey reaches out and grips the wall. The rough edges cut into her fingertips, reminding her that she is _alive_ and that this moment isn’t a part of some dream. She replays what he’s just said at least two more times in her mind—the implications dizzying.

 

Her voice trembles, though, as she asks, “Are you saying you believe me?”

 

Ren drops his face into his hands and sighs. His shoulders sink as if a heavy weight has been placed upon them. “I am,” he says in a husky, worn out voice.

 

“So…I’m free to go?” she asks softly, as if in prayer.

 

The look he gives her shatters her hope. She sinks back into the wall, sinks back into earth. “But I’ve answered your question.”

 

“And?” Ren shrugs. “There’ll be more.”

 

“I’m just an orphan from a country in the middle of nowhere.” She’s falling and she’s frantic.

 

“Maybe. But we don’t know that for sure.”

 

“How many times do I have to say it?”

 

Ren stands. He closes her folder and tucks it under his arm. “There has to be a reason why the Americans are so keen on finding you, to send someone from their special forces to come looking for you.”

 

He moves to the door, opens it, and stands in the threshold.

 

“But I don’t mean anything!” she insists with a strained voice. “I’m no one.”

 

He shakes his head. “No. You’re Rey, and to someone, it seems, you do.”

 

 

**XIV**

The sun rises as he finishes his cigarette. Ren lights up another. The morning air is crisp and the sky, a soft blue. For what feels like the first time since he’s been stationed here, the morning is quiet. If he closes his eyes, he can say that it’s almost peaceful, even if the stench of blood and bombs is impossible to ignore.

 

Machine guns pop off in the distance. A rifle goes off, maybe a handgun. The wind ruffles his hair and drags the smoke of his cigarette away

 

The early morning sky reminds him of Washington. On a morning not dissimilar to this one, he would run the National Mall, footsteps crunching along the gravel. He ran mostly for health, but then he met Faz. Once Faz was in his life, he would use those quiet blue hours to reflect on lofty ideas like _purpose_ and _honor._ They sit heavy over him as he takes in the rubble.

 

 _Do you want to change the world?_ He scoffs and flicks the ash from his cigarette.

 

His thoughts take him to the girl called Rey, and something twinges in his gut. Ren takes a long drag and exhales a thin line of grey. He entertains the thought, not for the first time, that he might have an anger problem.

 

But he knows that he’s seen her before, though he can’t fix her face to any particular time or location. Ren has never been to Afghanistan prior to this deployment, and according to the report in Dameron’s possession, she has never left the city, let alone the country, prior to 1966.

 

That leaves four years completely unaccounted for on her end.  God, is it accounted for on his, though. He lingers over those hardly-touched memories, but when he realizes he can’t clearly remember his parents’ faces, he takes a sharp breath in. He turns his attention to the cigarette and takes a hard drag. The tobacco hisses and his thoughts quiet.

 

He considers lighting up a third, but decides against it. Before coming outside, he was already down to three-quarters of his pack, and he's nearing the end of his ration. More than anything, he’s tired. He hasn’t slept much in quite some time; he hasn’t slept _well_ since being assigned here.

 

Ren hears the distinct sound of rocks crunched under Soviet boots and his heart sinks. If Yablonsky and Ozerov are back, that means they haven’t been able to find anyone to even strike up a conversation with.

 

As their familiar figures turn the corner and make their way back to the elementary school, Ren crushes the stub of his cigarette into the wall. Yablonsky brings up the rear and Ozerov barks at him to keep up. Ren swears under his breath in English.

 

 

**XV**

Yablonsky scurries into the room with two fold-up chairs and sets them up. There’s no table, and Rey thinks for a moment that its absence is odd. She steps away from the wall she was leaning on and her hip juts out as she crosses her arms. She waits for Ren.

 

But when the door opens, it is not Ren in the threshold. Her heart skips a beat and she stands up straight.

 

The man is as tall as Ren, but that’s where the similarities stop. He’s older, for one, probably in his mid-fifties, with a tuft of greying brown hair. He sports no facial hair, which makes Rey wonder if he simply can’t grow it or if he has the compound’s only razor. His uniform is dirtier than Ren’s, and his shoulders are absent of any bars to indicate rank.

 

The man’s expression is stern, but it’s not a pretense; there’s no fury boiling underneath. In fact, Rey thinks he looks rather like a parent.

 

He has a clipboard tucked under his arm. Rey doesn’t take her eyes off the thin, flat surface which, she determines, is about the size of her face. He sits.

 

The light flickers. The man clears his throat.

 

“Take a seat, please,” he says as he gestures to the open seat. His accented voice is like his face, more parental than terrifying. She can feel her heart slowing down, but still she does not move. “Please,” he repeats.

 

“What’s your name?” Rey asks with narrowed eyes.

 

“Arkady Gregorovich Ozerov,” he says. “And I’m not here to fight, Rey. I’m just here to ask a few questions.”

 

“Ren said the same thing once,” she fires back.

 

Ozerov looks up from the clipboard, eyebrow raised. He laughs without humor. “Captain Ren has no business interrogating prisoners. He is better at gathering intelligence, analyzing it in an office. Not the extraction part. That is what I’m here for. Please, sit.” He harrumphs and mutters, “ _On durak_ ,” under his breath.

 

Rey knows a handful of words in the Russian tongue and that was one of them. Ozerov had called the officer a fool. She stifles a smile, unsure which was more amusing to her: the fact that other people on this compound found him insufferable, or the fact that Ozerov tried to conceal that information from her.

 

Rey settles into the offered seat. “Won’t they hear you?” she asks.

 

Ozerov makes a noncommittal noise, which Rey thinks might be chuckle. He nods in the direction of the camera in the corner on their right. “The sound isn’t that good. Besides, I’m not saying anything he doesn’t already know.” Rey snorts.

 

He crosses his legs and rests the clipboard in his lap. “ _Seychas, devochka_.” He takes a pen from his breast pocket and uncaps it. “Why don’t you tell me something that I don’t already know.”

 

Rey leans back and crosses her arms. She shrugs her shoulders. “I can’t say anything else.”

 

“Can’t?”  He looks up from his notes. “Or won’t?”

 

She leans in. “I have given you _everything_. I-I don’t know how many times I can say it: I don’t know anything.”

 

“There is no need to sound so terse, Rey,” Ozerov says. “Take me back to your first known interaction with Mr. Dameron.”

 

Rey takes a deep breath and nods. She sinks into the back of the chair and looks off to the side wall. The memory plays like a video. “People started leaving as soon as ’78. By the time of the coup, the place was practically empty.”

 

“Where did everyone go?”

 

“They either left the country or went to fight with the mujahideen.”

 

“So you’ve been on your own for _three_ years?” Ozerov looks up. Something like concern is in his expression. She shakes her head, rolls her eyes and returns her attention to the wall.

 

“Oscar—Poe…whatever his name is, ran into me. I was going out to look for food. I don’t know what he was doing.”

 

“But you knew he was American?”

 

“Yeah.” Rey drops her gaze to her feet. “Yeah, I did. I don’t know where he learned Dari, though, but it was good.”

 

“He never told you he was American.” It’s less of a question and more of an assumption that she confirms.

 

“No. Not once.”

 

Ozerov nods. He caps his pen and returns it to his pocket. “ _Ladno_ ,” he says. He leans back in his seat and runs his hand down his face. “ _Ladno_.”

 

 _Ladno_ means _okay_ and Rey perks up. Ozerov reads her expression by shaking his head. “Don’t get ahead of yourself, _devochka_ , I don’t believe you.”

 

Rey pinches her face in frustration. “But it’s the truth!”

 

Ozerov raises his index finger. “Ah, now see, it is _your_ truth. It is not necessarily _the_ truth.”

 

“What?”

 

“Your story is very strange, each and every iteration of it. But it’s natural. I do not believe you are lying, because if you were, you would have told us the same thing again and again, word for word like a script. I don’t, however, think you’re telling me the whole truth.”

 

Rey groans and rolls her head so far back that she catches a slice of yellow sunset from the little window. “The whole truth _is_ my truth!”

 

“I said your story might not be a scripted like a movie, but it reads like a spy novel. Fabricated in some way.”

 

“What else could you _possibly_ want to know?”

 

“Perhaps the one thing that’s been sitting over us since we’ve captured you.” Ozerov leans in now, close enough that Rey can make out the color of his eyes: pale blue like ice. “Why on earth—after all of your friends left this place—did you stay?”

 

Rey sets her jaw and her brow. “I don’t know.” She looks away.

 

“You must think me as foolish as Ren if you think I’ll buy that answer.”

 

She sinks lower into her seat. “Well, I don’t.”

 

“When you say it like that, it makes me question everything else you’ve said about not knowing anything.”

 

“Say it like what?”

 

“Like a petulant child.” Rey scowls, which elicits a chuckle from the older man. She cants her head to the side. “My children are grown now, but I still remember how they sounded when they were your age and trying to hide something from me.

 

“Now, Rey, common sense would dictate that once the bombs started dropping, once the tanks rolled in, you would have left. Yes?”

 

Rey nods.

 

“Yet, _three years later_ , you’re still here. Who were you _staying_ for? What were you _waiting_ for?”

 

Rey shrugs again. She feels as if she could bore a hole into the wall with how hard she’s staring at it. She clenches her jaw and suppresses the scream boiling in her gut. Her body is trapped in this faded, peeling blue room, but her mind is in her apartment. Her mind is home.

 

She thinks of the photograph taped above her bed. The photograph must have been at least fifteen years old, but even with all that time, it retained its saturation. The ocean was still as blue as a fairytale; the cliffs white as bleached cotton. Oscar’s report had called it _Dover_. She doesn’t know what _Dover_ is, or where it could possibly be, she just knows that it is quite far away. It’s not the first time she’s considered it, but she wonders if that is where her parents are.

 

She likes to imagine that her father would have shared her sense of mischief, that her mother would have been clever. Sometimes it’s her mother who has the hazel eyes and the splash of freckles, and other times it’s her father. She wonders who she should blame for her ears, who she should thank for her smile. Maybe her mother sang the song to her as a child, to calm her during summer storms. More than anything, she likes to imagine that her life has been all one tragic misunderstanding, a dream, that she’ll be woken from by the rousing of a mother in order to join a father (and maybe a brother?  A sister?  Both?) for breakfast.

 

She realizes then that she can’t clearly remember the faces of Maz, Hassan or their children.

 

“Who were you waiting for?” Ozerov prods again.

 

Rey shuts her eyes tight and fights the wave of tears.

 

 

**XVI**

It was Ren’s idea for Ozerov to interview the girl. The Warrant Officer plays up the stern father role, something they had discussed, and it seems to work on Rey. Her answers remain consistent with her previous statements. The image fuzzes out for a moment.

 

Then Ozerov asks her a new question— _who are you waiting for_ — and the interrogation comes to an audible halt. Rey sinks so low into her chair that she might slip out. Her arms are crossed, her legs are crossed, and her attention is steadfastly on the wall away from the camera. She covers her mouth with her fist and shuts her eyes tightly.

 

Something stirs within Ren and he can’t take his eyes off the screen. He presses the earphones into his head, trying to coax out whatever sound he can. It’s faint and the static crinkles the sound, but he picks up her saying, “My family.” That something stirring deeply laces itself around his chest and _pulls._

 

The sound cuts out again in a rush of static. Ren jumps and fumbles with the headphone jack, twisting it back and forth. When that doesn’t bring back the sound, he hits the top of the box. His fist strikes the edge of the sharp metal; he swears and shakes his hand until the stinging stops. A knock on the door interrupts him, and Ren calls the intruder inside.

 

Filipov opens the door. The young private has a notebook in hand, a pencil tucked behind his ear, and terror etched into his face. The kid’s hands quake.

 

“What is it, Filipov?” He tries not to sound annoyed. Filipov recoils anyway, though Ren is fairly certain that no matter what tone he used, the private would have done the same.

 

“Phone for you, Captain.”

 

Ren grumbles as he pulls the headphones off. He swings the chair toward the door and leans back in it. “Is it Colonel Tereshchenko?”

 

“ _Nyet_ , _Tovarish_. I-It’s Major General Snegiryov.”

 

The air rushes through Ren’s lungs as the earth slips under his feet. They’ve been here long enough that Tereshchenko’s negligence of them is routine, but Major General Snegiryov has never called. As far as Ren knows, he never even confirmed if they arrived in the right city. He grips the chair’s arm.

 

“Did he say what he wanted?”

 

Filipov shakes his head. “ _Nyet, Tovarish_. Just that he wanted to talk with you and that the matter was urgent.”

 

Ren’s heartbeat echoes in his fingertips and in his ears. A chill settles over him. “I’ll be there,” he says after a beat.

 

Per the Major General’s request, Hux, Filipov and Yablonsky give Ren the room. Aside from the occasional pop of machine gun fire and the whirring of a helicopter, the room is quiet. Ren brings the receiver to his ear. The sound crackles along edges.

 

“ _Da_ , _Tovarish General_?”

 

“Good afternoon, Captain Ren!” Ren’s skin crawls at the laugh in Snegiryov’s voice. “Though I suppose it’s the evening for you, isn’t it? How was dinner?”

 

Ren casts his gaze to the earth and buries his face into his hand. “It’s about seven o’clock, _Tovarish General_. Dinner was fine.”

 

“Excellent. And the weather, is it pleasant?”

 

“A balmy thirty-three at the end of August.” Ren imagines the Major General in his Lubyanka office: an air conditioner unit blowing cool air into the room, a staff waiting at his beck and call, and most importantly, a warm meal waiting for him at close of business.

 

“Sounds like a dream.”

 

It’s sweltering. A machine gun fires off several rounds and a BTR rolls out in the distance. Hunger scrapes at Ren’s sides.

 

“Captain Ren, are you aware of the reason for this call?”

 

Out of habit, Ren shakes his head. “I can’t say that I am, _Tovarish General_.”

 

“Captain Hux sent an urgent message my way, maybe a few days ago, saying that you’ve been…slower, somehow. Less motivated.” Ren grips the phone tighter and snaps his attention up. “Would you like to tell me about that?”

 

“Everything is fine, _Tovarish General_ ,” Ren says. He tries to keep his tone respectful, but images of running Hux’s face into a wall mire his mind.

 

“He says you’ve changed since interviewing the American.”

 

He rolls his shoulders back and looks out the window. The setting sun has set the sky ablaze. “I can’t imagine what I’ve done to give him that impression."

 

“Need I remind you, Captain Ren, that this war is far greater than putting an end to the religious zealotry in the south? We are bringing these people, our brothers and sisters, into the twentieth century. We are giving them modernity.”

 

“I understand that completely, _Tovarish General_.” He wants to pace; his body hums with excess energy, but the short wire between the receiver and its box keeps him stationary. It doesn’t stop him from leaning against the back wall and tapping his foot.

 

“You know, Captain Ren, I always did have my doubts about you.”

 

Ren’s blood goes cold. “Excuse me?”

 

“You were raised among diplomats and other political elites,” the Major General says. “I’ve recruited others from America, but never one with a background as privileged as yours. I wasn’t sure you would take to Moscow.”

 

“Their wealth and titles mean nothing to me,” Ren says. “Moscow is a city of brotherhood and I have enjoyed serving the Motherland.”

 

“And your recitation of Party propaganda means nothing to me.” The Major General is calm, but his terseness stings like a viper’s bite. Ren recoils. “If your behavior has grown so absurd that even Captain Hux can notice it, you’ve passed a line and you’re dancing on forgivability.”

 

“My sincerest apologies, _Tovarish General_.”

 

The Major General _tsks_ at him. “Remember, Captain. It was _I_ who gave you those bars and your identity within the Union. If you should somehow lose my good graces, you may find yourself in a very peculiar situation of having neither the Soviet Union nor the United States as your home.”

 

“I understand, _Tovarish General_.”

 

“We are so very close now to the end of the American scourge. Once we capture Afghanistan, we will have the foothold we need in the Near East. You cannot falter now.”

 

“ _Da. Konechno._ ”

 

“Good bye, Captain Ren.”

 

The call disconnects with three beeps.

 

***

 

Ren pounds on the door to his shared room with Hux. “Open this door, you fucking piece of shit.” The blue door opens, revealing Captain Hux and his perpetual scowl. He can hardly get a word out before Ren grabs him by the lapels and shoves him against the wall.

 

“Fuck you,” Ren snarls.

 

Hux breaks the hold and strikes Ren in the nose with the base of his palm. Lights pop in Ren’s vision as he drops Hux and doubles back. Once he’s found his footing again, Ren pinches the bridge of his nose and keeps his head back.

 

Hux readjusts his uniform. Somehow, his is the uniform that’s retained the most color and the most collar starch. “I suppose I should ask what that was for, but I think I already know.”

 

“You’re fucking right you do. Going behind my back now and telling Snegiryov that I’m not _loyal_? That I’m _distracted_ from this?” Ren sweeps his arm around the rubble and the grime for emphasis.

 

A pencil falls to the cement behind him in the hallway. Ren doesn’t turn. Hux looks over his shoulder.

 

“Yablonsky. Filipov. Get out of here,” Hux orders, and the privates scuttle away. Hux returns his attention to Ren. “You’re slipping there, Captain. Careful.”

 

“You don’t get to tell me how I do my job.” Ren hisses. He uses his wrist to wipe away the blood trickling from his nose.

 

“You’re right. I don’t. That’s why I had Snegiryov call you.” Hux’s face pinches, like he’s eaten something sour, like he’s settled on a bitter truth. “What does it feel like to be _wrong_ , Ren?”

 

He scoffs. “Why should I tell you, since you’re constantly in it?”

 

Hux pops his chin up so he looks down at Ren. He sneers. “I bet all he did was slap the back of your hand, too.”

 

“You had no right.”

 

“And _you_ have no right to be here—in Kabul _or_ in Moscow!” Hux bellows.

 

“Unlike you, _I_ never threw a nine year old girl to the mafia as bait before!”

 

A vein crawls over Hux’s left eye and slowly, his skin turns not red, but purple. The air almost crackles with electricity. “At least _my_ cockup didn’t involve compassion for the _enemy_ ,” Hux hisses. “I’ve never forgotten why we’re here!”

 

Ren wipes under his nose again. “She’s a _civilian_. Hux, she doesn’t know anything!”

 

“She’s a _prisoner of war!_ ” Hux corrects. “When the fuck are you going to get that through your head? This is war and people die. _Our_ people die. And _our_ people are counting on us.”

 

“What secrets could a nineteen year old girl have that _our_ —” he almost spits the word “—people could _possibly_ be counting on?”

 

Hux glares. “You’ve been soft on her, Ren. And Ozerov’s disappointed father routine is probably going to collapse at any minute now.”

 

Hux’s words and their implications throw Ren’s equilibrium off. His blood goes cold. “What are you going to do?”

 

“She _has_ to talk, Ren. We _have_ to know why the Americans want her.”

 

Ren reacts. He doesn’t take time to think through the next few steps; he doesn’t even stop to catch the dripping blood. He just takes out his Makarov from his hip holster. He clicks off the safety, drops the hammer, pulls back the slide and raises the gun. He uses his free hand for stability and places the sights over Hux’s bone-white face. Ren’s blood runs down his face and drips onto his collar.

 

“This is _exactly_ why I left the US.”

 

 

**XVII**

Ozerov has stopped taking notes. He’s leaning in, elbows on his knees, chin propped up by steepled hands as if in prayer. She hasn’t decided if he’s concerned or just curious.

 

Rey closes her eyes tight and cool tears spill down her cheeks. A whine catches at the back of her throat. She bites her bottom lip and with each inhale, she holds her breath and counts to ten before exhaling. The pain in her lungs mirrors the ripping, shredding feeling she has in her heart. She steels herself against the mighty wave of sorrow, of grief. She’s never been to the ocean before, she’s never even seen it save for her photograph, but she imagines being pulled in an undertow feels an awful lot like this.

 

“You were waiting for your family?” Ozerov asks. He sounds concerned.

 

She doesn’t look at him. She can’t. She brings her hands to her face and her shoulders shake with each rolling sob.

 

Rey is not a believer of any sort and as such, has never truly believed in the divine. She has never believed in a soul. But now she does, because that can be the only thing that is breaking inside her right now. Her soul _aches_ as she finally acknowledges that she has been lonely for years and has been unforgivably foolish. She let a real family—Maz, Hassan, their children—slip through her fingers for one that only existed in her mind, one who would never return for her.

 

Rey is, and will always be, alone.

 

She feels Ozerov’s hand—rough but warm—on her arm. She gasps and drops her hands from her face. The older man’s expression is deeper than concern; it’s an emotion that she can’t quite fully parse. She crumbles under it and sobs again.

 

He opens his mouth to say something.

 

But then—there’s a gunshot.

 

Rey has heard many gunshots since the start of this war: machine guns, rifles, pistols. Every bullet exiting the chamber of each weapon breaks the sound barrier with its own _crack_. But she has never heard one this close. It jolts Rey from her melancholy and suddenly, she’s hyper-aware of everything.

 

She’s seen bodies: bloated in the hot sun and half-eaten by dogs and rodents and flies. She knows what death smells like. But she has never looked at a cadaver and known its face. The thought of death this close to her leaves Rey wide-eyed and breathless. If the body would be that of her enemy, of her captors, that makes little difference.

 

The color drains from Ozerov’s face. He bolts to his feet and is out of the room before his clipboard crashes onto the floor.

 

 

**XVIII**

Hux’s eyes go wide once the pistol comes out. “You’re not going to shoot me,” he says. It’s the first time Ren has heard even the faintest thread of fear in the captain’s voice. He can see a light sheen of sweat on Hux’s forehead.

 

Ren takes a breath, but he doesn’t move.

 

Hux does. He shifts his body to the left, moving out of the gun’s sights for a moment. He grabs Ren’s wrist, pushes his arm away. But he extends too far. He trips.

 

Ren’s body follows the force. One leg falls over the other in his attempts to stabilize himself. The sudden movement makes his arm seize. And his finger squeezes the trigger.

  
The sound pierces Ren’s eardrums. The gun hums in his hand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The bombing campaign in Jalrez that Hux and Ren are reading about [actually happend](http://publishing.cdlib.org/ucpressebooks/view?docId=ft7b69p12h&chunk.id=ch013&toc.depth=1&toc.id=ch013&brand=eschol;query=jalrez#1).
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> [follow here for story updates](http://anothergarbagechute.tumblr.com/)


	4. Tilting Horizons

 

Why do they never tell us that you are poor devils like us, that your mothers are just as anxious as ours, and that we have the same fear of death, and the same dying and the same agony…?

— Erich Maria Remarque, _All Quiet on the Western Front_

 

**XIX**

The sun rises and the sun sets. She watches this happen three times. In that span, neither Ren nor Ozerov comes to her room. She doesn’t worry about Ozerov—he was across from her when the shot rang out, so she knows he’s safe. But she doesn’t know about Ren. She doesn’t think he’s dead, because a fatality would have caused more commotion. But, and this is only if Rey is being completely honest with herself, the thought of him being wounded gives her no pleasure either.

 

Captain _Kirill Ren_ is not a kind man. He has been cruel to her. No doubt he has been cruel to Oscar as well. But there’s hardly any water and there’s hardly any food here. If such basic needs can’t be met by the Soviet army, she doesn’t expect them to have much by way of medical supplies. Rey has seen what sepsis will do to a person. Her stomach roils with the memory—it’s a terrible, cruel way to die.

 

“ _Ya Allah_ ,” she mutters, flicking a loose rock away from her. Rey sits against the wall and watches the setting sun from the little window. The sky is molten bronze. She hums the old, familiar song and half-whispers, half-sings the solitary line: _And we’ll all go together, to pluck wild mountain thyme._

 

The door opens with a _click,_ and there Captain Ren stands. Her heart skips a beat, and her breath catches in her throat.

 

“You’re okay,” she breathes. She pulls herself off the ground and just _stares_. His prominent nose is swollen and red. Fading purple splotches cover his neck—she winces. But aside from that, Ren is fine. His peculiarly angled face has remained intact: not a single mole or freckle out of place. His large body is not contorted in pain. There are no bandages, no gauze strips, no signs of any serious physical harm having come to him at all. And she’s…relieved.

 

He pushes a lock of hair behind his ear. “Don’t look so surprised.”

 

The relief burns into annoyance and she glares at him. “Someone was shot!”

 

“No one was shot,” he says, leaning against the far wall. He looks down and his long bangs flop into his face.

 

“What was that _bang_ then, huh?” she demands, throwing her arm up toward the door.

 

“A _misfire_ ,” Ren snaps. “The bullet’s lodged in the far wall of my room. It’s _fine_.”

 

“Well, if everything is _fine_ , why are you here?” She doesn’t ask about the bruises around his neck.

 

Ren crosses his arms and they glare at each other. The dying sunlight throws deep shadows across his face, the strange angles turning him almost inhuman. Ren is larger than her and he is terrifying, but she refuses to be intimidated any longer. She takes a step toward him. And then another.

 

She’s close enough now that she can feel the heat emanate from his body. He’s forced to look down at her. The last bit of sunlight catches his eyes and she realizes that there is green there: a thin rim of a soft, warm green, almost lost in a sea of whisky-brown. It’s a thrilling fact.

 

“Why _are_ you here, Captain Ren?” Rey repeats, voice low. Orange sunlight fades to a soft blue-grey and the harsh shadows on his face disappear. Suddenly, he’s human again.

 

Rey leans in just a fraction of an inch, eyes locked on his. Ren’s breath hitches. It’s dizzying up here, on the edge of this frail precipice she’s found herself on.

 

“Are you thirsty?” he asks.

 

Rey blinks and takes a jarring step back. “What?”

 

Ren clears his throat and fumbles with the canteen on his hip. As he brings it to eye level, the water sloshes against its plastic sides. Rey runs her tongue over her bottom lip as she realizes how dry and thick her mouth actually is.

 

“Do you want some water?” he asks again. She shakes her head. “It’s not poisoned,” he insists. There’s a thread of humor in his tone.

 

Rey narrows her eyes and darts her gaze between the canteen and his face. His expression is neutral, save for the slight uptick in his brow—he’s asking sincerely.

 

She reaches out, takes it and drinks until her belly is full. The water is warm and tastes like the plastic it has sat in for hours, but it sharpens senses she wasn’t even aware had dulled. With a satisfied sigh, Rey clasps the canteen and gives it back to him.

 

“How are you doing?” he asks as he fixes the canteen back to his hip.

 

“Considering how keen you all are on terrifying me into a heart attack, fine, I guess.” She leans against the wall. “Why do you care?”

 

It’s grown so dark now, and the edges of his frame have grown so fuzzy, that she can hardly see his shrug. So, she asks for some light, in which Ren obliges. The humming of the light fills the void of their silence.

 

Rey glances out the little corner window. Somewhere out there, a machine gun cracks through several rounds and a tank cannon responds with a thunderous boom. It’s quiet for a moment, but Rey thinks she can hear a wail.

 

A shudder runs through her. “What happens when this is all over?”

 

There is no humor when Ren laughs. He takes a pull of water. “This war is never going to end.”

 

“What are you talking about?” she asks. Rey might not know the formalities behind peace treaties, but she knows that wars must _end_. Winter always yields to spring. He would be a bitter nihilist to think otherwise.

 

“Moscow isn’t going to stop until there’s nothing left…on _either_ side,” he grumbles. The light makes a popping noise as its light pulses.

 

“We’re pretty sure the Americans are training the mujahideen, so the question isn’t _if_ they’re going to arm them with better weapons, but _when_.” He leans back and sighs. “It’s going to get a whole lot bloodier before it gets any better.”

 

Rey gestures for the water. He gives it to her and takes a sip. “You keep saying _the Americans_ as if you’re not one of them.”

 

He looks at her. “I’m not.” His tone is convincing. His accent is not.

 

“I might be uneducated, Captain, but I’m not an idiot,” Rey counters.

 

He nods. His gaze falls to the ground, finding something of interest in the cracks and the dirt. “I know.”

 

“What’s your name?” she asks. “Your _real_ name.”

 

The light stops flickering—its beam now the strongest and quietest it’s ever been. Under its glare, Ren shrinks into himself. He crosses his arms and his large body leans forward just a bit. He pulls his leg up and rests his foot on the wall: a barrier between himself and her. He does not look at her. The tips of his ears turn scarlet.

 

What he mutters is lost in the whirring of vehicles in motion, so she asks him to repeat himself.

 

His jaw clenches. He scratches the side of his face and takes another deep breath. Now, he looks at her, and his expression is so wholly vulnerable that it almost knocks the wind from her.

 

“Ben,” he says. “My name is… _was_ …Benjamin Henry Solo.” He draws out each part of his name, as if he needs to reacquaint himself with the syllables.

 

The red that blooms across his cheeks surprises Rey. She is not, however, surprised by that name. A feeling close to satisfaction arises in her. Of course his name is Benjamin Solo. What else could it possibly be?

 

“It suits you,” she says.

 

“And yours?” he asks. “There has to be _something_ you can remember that doesn’t come from an intelligence report.”

 

“Well, there isn’t,” she huffs. “I’ve tried.” Rey clears her throat, backtracks, and tries again. “There is… _one_ thing though.”

 

He sits up, interest piqued.

 

“Do you know a song with this lyric?” She sings for him the line in the melody that has played in the back of her mind as far as she can remember.

 

He considers it, asks her to sing it a few more times. “It’s familiar,” he says. “I might have heard it once when I was a kid, but I think the fact that it’s in English might be the most important thing.”

 

Rey sighs and sinks into the wall, conceding to his point. It had been a long shot anyway. “Did you want the last sip?” She holds up the canteen. He nods, and when he reaches for it, their fingertips brush against each other.

 

“Thanks,” he mumbles as he returns the canteen to its holder.

 

“You’re…you’re welcome.” Rey glances at her hand—her fingertips tingle. She fidgets with them until the sensation stops. He says his goodbyes, leaves the room and the light goes out with a _click_.

 

 

**XX**

On a sweltering Thursday, Yablonsky and Filipov shoot out of the Radio Room and race to the officers’ quarters. Hux can barely get the door open before he’s hit with a barrage of indistinguishable words from the privates talking over one another. Hux tells them to quiet, and for one and only one to speak.

 

“There’s going to be a raid on Pul-e Charki!” Filipov's eyes are wild.

 

Ren calls Colonel Tereshchenko at the prison while Hux gets Ozerov. The two of them go over the tapes with the privates in the Radio Room.

 

There’s no answer from the Colonel or his sergeants. Again. Ren tries three more times with the same result. As Ren returns the receiver, an argument breaks out between Ozerov and Yablonsky about a word so garbled they can’t tell if it’s Russian or Dari.

 

“They don’t even have the capability to _think_ about Pul-e Charki,” Hux says to no one in particular, “let alone run it.” He tells Filipov to reverse the tape again.

 

Ren taps Yablonsky’s shoulder, dismisses him, and settles into the now empty seat. As he puts the headphones on, Ren mutters, mostly to himself, “It’s a fourth down Hail Mary pass.”

 

The look this elicits from his team jumpstarts a ten minute explanation of American football.

 

“You were from the capital, right?” Filipov asks. Ren nods hesitantly. “What was it like?” The curiosity in Filipov’s question is so genuine that it borders on treason.

 

Ren sighs, looks out the window to the dirt and dust and answers in the only way that he can. “It was different.”

 

It’s the first time he’s even broached the subject of the States with someone other than Snegiryov or Hux, he realizes. It’s not melancholy that claws at him as he slides the headphones on, though the feeling is quite disheartening. Memories tug at the back of his mind—cold stadiums and winter snow; the roar of a crowd; whoops and cheers and high-fives after a touchdown pass. He had his first beer at a Skins game.  His father couldn’t be relied on for many things, neither of his parents were around very often, but football brought them together.

 

It’s not melancholy he feels. It’s nostalgia.

 

***

 

On Sunday, Ren goes to Rey again. She’s leaning against the wall and her attention is on the little corner window when he opens the door. The setting sun bathes her face in golden light and for a moment he _thinks_ he might remember where he’s seen her before. But then a cloud pulls over the sun and the shadows across her face shift, and the thought is gone.

 

She hums the tune to that song, familiar to him in the same way a dream feels familiar in the daytime.

 

He clears his throat to catch her attention, but to no avail. He tries again, louder, and adds, “How are you doing?”

 

When she looks at him now, Ren can feel the earth turning on its axis.

 

“Fine,” she says. It’s an honest answer, without even the slightest intonation of sarcasm. “Why?”

 

It catches him off guard and he fumbles for a reason, stammering out nonsensical gibberish in both Russian and English.  With every syllable he utters, Rey grows more confused and he becomes more frustrated. So he abandons ship. On his way back to the Radio Room, Ozerov asks why his face is so red. Ren doesn’t answer.

 

***

 

In regards to the chatter Yablonsky and Filipov picked up, a team from the other side of Kabul gets back to them and reports that it’s just a rumor. There is, however, buzz about Americans in Herat. The list of wounded, missing and killed grows longer. It’s Monday and Tereshchenko doesn’t call all day.

 

Tuesday is blustery; dust and dirt pelt the building like rain. Ren takes a quick count of the ration crate and counts six boxes of food for them, and barely a dozen kasha packets for the prisoners. His stomach aches and his heart drops. He finds a piece of chocolate, one that Ozerov and Yablonsky hadn’t used in their dive, and pockets it.

 

Another call to Tereshchenko. Nothing. Another call to the Rezidentura and they tell him to call the prison.

 

***

 

On Friday evening, Ren takes Rey her food himself.  As she eats, he asks her what she did for fun before the war.

 

“I used to kite run,” she says. She swallows her last bite and sets the bowl down. She asks for some water; he obliges. “On our off days, we’d get out of the city and we’d be there for hours.”

 

“Who’s we?” He tries to imagine the kind of person who Rey would have considered a friend.

 

“Ismail and Mustafa,” she says with the slightest hint of sorrow. She tells him the story of her first and only Friday running. Friday, the day when Kabul’s skies turned into stained glass with the sheer number of kites in the air. Looking out the little window, the sky is dark and there’s hardly a cloud. It’s as dry and as empty as the earth it sits above.

 

Rey continues with her story. “I lasted all of three minutes before some other boys ganged up on me. It’s a boy’s sport, you know, and they said I didn’t have a right to be there.”

 

Ren cracks a smile. “I have no doubt that you didn’t stand for that.”

 

Rey smiles too. It’s soft and barely what he would call a happy gesture, but her entire disposition lightens. The thought occurs to him that he would like to see her truly smile. The tips of his ears burn furiously.

 

She holds up her fists and shadow boxes a solid one-two. “It’s hard to punish a kid that isn’t your own,” Rey says. “But Maz and Hassan found a way.” The heartache he sees in her keeps him from asking who they were.

 

Tereshchenko doesn’t call on Tuesday either.

 

***

 

On Thursday, a mine explodes a few blocks away. The small column of soldiers caught in its blast radius dash into the abandoned school and one of the spare supply rooms becomes a makeshift hospital. A man named Budaev loses his leg to mid-shin that day. The screams of a man undergoing anestheticless surgery will haunt the corners of Ren’s dreams for years to come. They will never be able to scrub the blood off the walls completely.

 

Hux devises a relatively simple strategy.  It takes three days for him, Ren and Filipov to find and summarily execute the perpetrators. The oldest is no older than Filipov himself.

 

By Saturday night, they’re down to three rations. Tereshchenko doesn’t call and Hux throws the phone across the room. To the shock of everyone, it doesn’t break.

 

Sunday, Ren sits outside and smokes until he runs through his carton and there’s no more in the box in the supply room.

 

Monday night is the next time Ren sees her again. He doesn’t realize how much pressure he’s been under until she smiles at him, and the weight of this week _unfurls_.

 

The moon is high and its light streams across the room. She’s on the edge, enough so that her face catches silver rays. He’s in the shadows.

 

“Is everything alright?” she asks. He doesn’t have an answer for her, and even if he did, he wouldn’t tell her. Instead, he fumbles for the piece of chocolate he stashed away and gives it to her. It’s the best he can do, and it’s rather pathetic.

 

***

 

Tereshchenko calls as the sun rises on Wednesday morning, when the hunger is enough to blind them all.

 

“I hear you guys are going through a bit of a famine,” the Colonel says. Ren squeezes the phone so tightly it might crack. “Listen, I can’t apologize enough for not getting back to you on that. We’ve been…” the Colonel whistles. “We’ve been swamped with stuff up here. But there’s a box of your things. We’ll be bringing it down later today.”

 

“Anything interesting come from your interrogations, _Tovarish_?” Ren asks.

 

“A whole lot and some I can even share with you, Captain,” Tereshchenko says. “You’ve got the American, Dameron, in your custody, right?” Ren makes a noise in the affirmative. “Well, we’ve got a mujahid who helped get him into the city from Herat. That’s part of what’s been taking so long to get to you. This guy’s only just now cracking and you’re never going to believe who the American was looking for.”

 

When it’s revealed, Ren almost drops the phone. He loses the strength in his legs and sinks into the open chair. He’s barely cognizant of the Colonel’s instructions through his heart hammering in his ears.

 

“I need you all, with your cargo, in the air and on your way to Moscow tomorrow. But before you get there, I need to have a little chat with your American friend and the girl myself.”

 

When Ren disconnects the call and hangs up the receiver, his nerves feel like they’ve been dragged through fire.

 

 

**XXI**

A plane drones overhead. A UAZ or a BTR rumbles close by. It’s mid-afternoon and sunny, but a breeze passes through Kabul.

 

And they have food again.

 

As they eat, Rey isn’t quite sure what to call the man who sits across from her. _Ren_ doesn’t fit him anymore: Ren was all teeth and intimidation; he didn’t blush, let alone stammer when she asked him a question. But _Ben Solo_ is a stranger.

 

His attention is on his can of tuna and hers is straight on him. She repeats his name in her mind, hoping the concept will stick. He pulls out a can from his pocket and slides it in her direction.  She cracks it open and takes a bite. It’s some kind of meat mix, salty as all hell and it leaves her begging for the canteen of water, but it’s the first time she’s eaten _meat_ in some time.

 

Captain Ren also never shared his rations with her.

 

“Tell me about Eid,” _Ben_ says.  

 

“Why?” she asks. He shrugs. “It’s a big holiday. Lots of gifts. Lots of food.”

 

“So it’s basically your Christmas?”

 

Rey covers her mouth as she chews, and shrugs. She swallows. “I’ve been told. Hassan would usually bring us over to his father’s place and they’d slaughter a lamb and, _ya Allah_ , the _leftovers_.”

 

Just thinking about fresh, warm food makes Rey’s stomach growl in protest.

 

“Really?” Ben wrinkles his nose. “Just out in the back, _whack_ , and then dinner time?”

 

“I mean, not exactly."  She stabs her food. “But that’s the gist. Fariba got engaged in ’75, so that was fun.”

 

Ben chuckles. For once, it’s a sound with natural, good humor. “Why’s that?”

 

“The _man_ is supposed to dote on his fiance’s family for Eid. Jalil, bless his dear heart, really wanted to make a good impression on the family.”

 

“Was it? A good first impression, I mean?”

 

She nods. “Hassan already liked him a lot. He had a degree in business management and was primed for taking over the electronics shop when Hassan wanted to retire. After that first Eid though…it was like they were already married. They were…happy.”

 

Rey feels herself falling into another memory and her stomach churns. She stuffs her face with the questionable meat and focuses on its spongy consistency.

 

“What was Christmas like?” she asks.

 

Ren makes a quick reappearance with that mirthless laugh of his. This man’s inability to express a positive emotion without sarcasm grates on her nerves.  “I’m not the best one to ask that."

 

“Why not? I know they celebrate New Year’s in Russia, but it’s basically the same thing, right?”

 

 _Ben_ nods. “Yeah. I didn’t really have a family though, so it’s hard to say.”

 

“But you had a family in America.”

 

“I did. Sort of,” he admits. “Most of those big holidays were spent trying to stay _away_ from my family. The holidays bring the worst out in the Organas and the Solos.” A burst of gunfire echoes. “Now,” he redirects, “let’s get back to this whole _slaughtered lamb_ business.”

 

Rey laughs.

 

 

**XXII**

Kabul and Moscow are separated by a distance that takes a little over eight hours to fly. Tereshchenko has arranged for them to leave at six in the morning on an An-22 out of Bagram. It’s the best he can do on such short notice.

 

The An-22 is in-country to drop off a shipment of BTRs and gather an entire regiment too wounded to be of any use on the field, as well as twelve zinc caskets. They’re on a tighter than expected schedule—Tereshchenko reminds them that they _all_ are—so if they’re even a minute late, the plane is going to take off without them.

 

If all goes well, they’ll be sipping tea in Gorky Park by three in the afternoon.

 

It’s sixty miles to Bagram, so they wake everyone at two for a three o’clock departure. Filipov gets Dameron and Yablonsky wakes Rey. Ozerov checks over their equipment and their footlockers, ensuring once again that everything is accounted for and where it needs to be. Ren and Hux wait for their small convoy to come in.

 

Hux can hardly stand and Ren is so bleary-eyed, he can’t even light up a cigarette. Instead, he casts his attention to the heavens. The night is so incredibly dark and clear that the cloudy arm of the Milky Way stretches visibly across the sky.

 

There are no shells and no guns, but the odor of the dead—the chemicals, the oil and the gun residue—is as heavy as fog.

 

Olive green Uaziks approach the building. Ren has always thought they looked like Volkswagen vans but on stumpier wheels. The drivers put them in idle, kill the lights and jump out. They approach the officers and give them a salute too-sharp for two in the morning, introducing themselves as Sergeants Pashin and Shikhov. Hux rasps out an, “At ease, gentlemen.” Two other men exit the cars and help Ozerov pack the goods inside.

 

Yablonsky and Filipov bring out the prisoners, both with their arms secured behind their backs and blindfolded. Ren catches a glimpse of Rey from over Hux’s shoulder and his whole body freezes. He digs his heel into the dusty earth and sets his jaw, tries to focus on what the sergeants are telling him and Hux. It is impossible for him to leave and to go to her, and he hopes that she can understand that plain, unfortunate fact.

 

The plan is simple. There have been some reports about IEDs that the bomb squad hasn’t been able to extract, but they’ve done their best to map them out. They’ll be taking a winding route through the city, which will add some time to their drive, but hopefully once they’re on the highway it’ll be smooth sailing.

 

Their equipment takes up most of the ground floor in the first Uazik. Each soldier had barely a duffle bag’s worth of goods coming in; there’s hardly anything between the five coming out. When everything is loaded up, discussed and agreed upon, the team climbs up into the second vehicle. With a roar and a rumble, the sergeants bring their cars back to life and with a jolt, they’re off.

 

There is a grate between the driver and the back passengers. Ren leans against it. He’s next to Hux, who is next to Rey, who is next to Yablonsky. Across from them is Ozerov, Dameron and Filipov. It’s a tight fit. Ren keeps his attention over Sergeant Pashin’s shoulder and out the window. Even with the headlights cutting through the darkness, there isn’t much to see.

 

“You know what I’m going to do first thing we get to Moscow?” Yablonsky asks.

 

“Take a shower?” Filipov tosses out. “Because shit, man, do you need one.” Yablonsky flips him off.

 

“Boys,” Ozerov warns. The privates give their apologies and then continue their conversation, but in softer tones.

 

“I can’t wait to see my mom again,” Filipov says wistfully. “She makes the best pelmeni. Makes it from scratch too.”

 

“Are you going home right away, Alyosha? You should come to my house and have dinner with my family,” Yablonsky says. “My mother’s shashlik is—” He kisses his fingertips throws his hand out in the air “— _c’est magnifique!_ ”

 

“Would Larisa mind much?” Filipov asks.

 

“Not at all,” Yablonsky replies. “I can’t wait to see everyone.”

 

“We’ll be home soon, Leka.”

 

And Ren _almost_ smiles.

 

As they wind through Kabul, it doesn’t take long for the rumble and the rocking to lull everyone to sleep, even Hux. But sleep evades Ren. He keeps his eyes on the broken road before them.

 

On the edge of town, they pass a small regiment of soldiers coming in from the west. They prop each other up. Blood and dirt cake their faces and their uniforms. A gurney stretches between four large company men. There are at least two bodies lying on it; five arms. Blood stains the dust-covered ground scarlet.

 

With one final lurch as Pashin changes gears, they cross Kabul’s borders.

 

 

**XXIII**

Rey’s heart beats over the vehicle’s engine as her nerves are crackle like the wires of an overworked switchboard. She fights to draw long breaths, inhales at “ _And we’ll all go together_ ” and exhales on “ _to pluck wild mountain thyme_.” Her vision goes spotty and her ears ring, but breathing like this keeps her from fainting completely. The handcuffs digging into her wrists anchor her to reality as well.

 

They’ve been driving for a while by the time the cabin becomes and stays quiet. Yablonsky even snores.

 

“How are you holding up, Sunshine?”

 

It’s Oscar. His voice is worn, scratchy and tired, but it’s him. Happiness engulfs her heart. He’s well enough to speak, which means he’s _alive_ , which means he can get _better_.

 

 _Mashallah_.

 

“I’m okay, I guess,” she says.

 

“It’s alright to say you’re scared.”

 

“I’m absolutely terrified.” Her voice wavers. “Are you okay? Did they hurt you?”

 

“I’m as fine as I can be for being held by Soviets for God knows how long.” Her heart aches at the implication. “What about you, did they hurt you?”

 

“No, not really,” she says. “I didn’t have anything to say.”

 

He scoffs. “I’m surprised they didn’t beat you until you made up something they wanted to hear.”

 

Rey takes a sharp breath and her body tenses. She doesn’t want to think about what her safety and overall health means now that it’s been placed in that context. The vehicle hits a divot in the road with a _bang_ and it jostles everyone. She waits until they doze back off before saying anything again.

 

“Where are we going?” she asks him.

 

“Moscow,” Dameron says, and her heart stops. “But first, we’re stopping at the prison.”

 

“What prison?”

 

“Pul-e Charki.”

 

 _That_ Rey has heard of, and any hope she carried with her out of her cell dissolves into dust.  Kindness might have been extended to her under Ren’s watch eventually, but kindness does not, _cannot_ live in that prison. Just the thought of returning to a chair across from an officer under a bright amber light makes her tremble. When she has nothing to tell them—and she has nothing to say, not even a lie that could pass itself off—they will pluck parts of herself until they can stitch _something_ together.

 

She will die soon. Of this and above all, she is absolutely certain.

 

“Oscar?” Rey says after some time.

 

“Yeah, Sunshine?”

 

“I’m sorry.”

 

“Don’t be. I should have told you who I was the minute I saw you. Don’t beat yourself up over that.”

 

“But—”

 

“Hey. Listen. We’re going to get through this, okay? We’re going to be okay. Just breathe and think of something that gives you joy. Try to get some sleep. We’ve got a long day ahead of us.”

 

 

**XXIV**

The sun cuts across the horizon and the sky bleeds.

 

The charge is late; the first Uazik has driven over it and the second one hasn’t reached it when it detonates. They are, however, close enough that their vehicle skids, rolls and crunches while bodies tumble.

 

***

 

Ren awakens several feet from the Uazik, now on its side. The dirt road resembles a Pollock painting in shades of red and brown. His face from his right jaw up to his left eyebrow is a line of hellfire. All he can smell is burning flesh.

  
His vision goes from light to dark and then light to dark again.


	5. Near Absolution

That was a long time ago, but it’s wrong what they say about the past, I’ve learned, about how you can bury it. Because the past claws its way out.

— Khaled Hosseini, _The Kite Runner_

 

**XXV**

Rey dreams.

 

She is in a very large, very old room. The ceilings are high and a balcony sweeps across the room, where reporters and the public can look on. Every design on every wooden panel of the balster seems to have been painstakingly constructed by hand. There are two rows of seats on either side of a wide aisle, like a stadium, except the sport that happens here isn’t nearly as exciting as football. Almost directly below the clock, which sits at the front of the room, is a large table with three leather-bound seats with high backs. The most important people sit there; they’re like the referees—referees who wear funny white wigs.

 

The room is empty now, but outside teems with the hustle and bustle of government business.

 

Rey is old enough to talk and read, to feed and dress herself, but she’s still quite young. Her feet don’t reach the floor when she sits and sometimes, at the end of long days when she can barely keep her eyes open, someone carries her. Despite loud protests earlier, Mother has made Rey’s outfit for today: a dress, blue as a robin’s egg, with a darker blue ribbon around her middle. Mother has also pulled her hair back in a flat, low hanging bun.

 

She hugs Father’s leg, half bored and half starved for attention. He puts his hand on her head and though he’s not paying her much mind, a warm feeling flows through her.

 

Father talks to Mother and another woman. The other woman—who Rey knows, but can’t remember how—isn’t as old as Papa, but she isn’t as young as Rey’s parents are either. Her nut-brown hair is braided and wraps around her head like a crown; Rey thinks the woman is pretty like a queen to start with. When the woman looks down at her and winks, Rey buries her face in her father’s leg and feels like she’s floating. She thinks the woman’s name is Rhea. Maybe Leah.

 

They talk about a man who died named Kennedy and the man who replaced him named Johnson. They laugh about the disaster that is some place called Vietnam, but Father shakes his head and the woman curses under her breath. Rey wonders why adults laugh at serious things sometimes.

 

Mother tells the crown-haired woman that she should be in charge of her own team, that Langley doesn’t know what they’ve got on their hands. The woman counters with a sardonic _ha_ , and says the entire department should be under her. That they’d be scattered to the winds without her.

 

On the note of scattered winds, Father mentions that the Ministry is sending him to Afghanistan. The woman’s face grows somber and ashen. Mother says that they’re allowing the whole family to go. She admits the assignment will be challenging, but they’ll all be together and that’s what matters most. Rey doesn’t know what Afghanistan is, but it sounds far away. She doesn’t want to leave her room, her home in Chelsea. She likes it just fine here.

 

The door opens and a boy too old to be called a child enters. He’s tall and gangly, like someone has stretched out a piece of taffy. His clothes are too large around the middle, but too short around his feet and hands. He sports a mop of unruly black waves and hazel eyes, and an absolutely foul disposition.

 

Rey knows this boy too, and she knows people have said that he’s the spitting image of his father, but Rey has never met his father. She thinks there’s an awful lot of the queen-like woman in the boy’s mole-and-freckle-spattered face. The boy plops down in one of the seats across from her, towards the back of the room, and pulls out a book.

 

Rey trots over to him, thinking he might be a better source of attention and entertainment than her somber parents. She says hello. The boy tells her to leave, calling her by her name, and says that his book, a ragged looking thing with a red and white cover, is far more important than playing with runts.

 

Rey huffs, crosses her arms and pinches her face. She is about to tell him exactly what she thinks of his book when the doors open again. Father and Mother welcome the new person by calling him Dad and her heart flutters. She knows the man as Papa. He’s been gone these past few weeks in a place far away called Dover. She has a photograph of its white cliffs in her room, taped above her headboard.

 

Dover is far, far away—far, far away from her.

 

She runs to him and her little heart beats so fast and so loud she thinks it’ll explode like a firework.

 

With outstretched arms, Papa cries out _there’s my little girl_ and meets her in the middle. He scoops her up and swings her around in a circle.

 

 _What are you doing with Ben the Scoundrel,_ Papa asks, and the boy looks up from his book with a scowl. Rey turns up her nose with a harrumph and says that she was just leaving. Papa’s laugh is genuine and full-sounding.

 

She settles into Papa’s hold and clutches tight as he rocks her back and forth gently. He smells like tobacco and juniper.

 

He says he’s missed her. Rey says she wants to sing their song, so they do.

 

 

***

 

Rey wakes.

 

She’s in a small beige room, lying on the softest mattress she’s slept on in years. There are needles and tubes in her right arm, which are attached to a machine that beeps out her heart rate. Her left arm is locked in a cast. Early morning light peeks in through a small window covered with slitted blinds.

 

An old man sits next to her, asleep, with his face resting on his fist. He wears fine tweed and large glasses. Though his hair is white as snow, and his face has deep lines of age and sun, Rey knows in her soul who this man is.

 

“ _And we’ll all go together,_ ” she sings again. Her voice is soft and weak, but loud enough to rouse a reaction from him. He sits up and blinks at her, mouth slightly agape. His eyes are the same color as the ocean that hugs the white cliffs of Dover.

 

“ _To pluck wild mountain thyme_ ,” he responds in a tenor so familiar that she aches. Her eyes sting with the prickling of tears.

 

They sing the next line, tired voices coming together in a harmony so well practiced that not even a decade could temper its sweetness. “ _All around the bloomin’ heather. Will ye go, lassie, go?_ ”

 

He stands, reaches over the bed frame and holds her tight; cool tears wet the crook of her neck. He smells like juniper and tobacco and she grips him tighter.

 

“Welcome back, sweetheart,” her grandfather says.

 

 

**XXVI**

It takes a week for the antibiotics to quell the growing infection on his face and in his side. It takes another week altogether to remove the bandages so he can talk. They won’t let him leave this hole dug out in Haqqani territory until he _does_ talk.

 

He has spent every day in a dark cell just big enough for him to lay flat from corner to corner, so it takes a second to adjust to the new room he’s been tossed into. Wide and open, it has a linoleum floor the color of toothpaste and concrete walls, white as alabaster. A metal table is propped against the wall furthest from him. Two fold-up chairs are on either side and a black plastic ashtray sits on top. The fluorescent bulb above him hums and casts the room in a sickly green light.

 

Ren settles into the chair facing the door. His skin crawls with the knowledge that people are watching him, though there aren’t any cameras around nor does the room have any windows. There must be a team of agents somewhere in this building scrutinizing every whisper he utters, every breath he takes.

 

Something from behind the vent clicks and churns. A chill runs down his spine and the hairs on his arm rise. Ren hugs his middle and tries to suppress a shiver. He wishes they had given him something other than grey scrubs to wear, but he supposes that’s the point.

 

The door opens with a creak, revealing a young man with dark skin, dressed in a charcoal grey suit and carrying a tawny attache. The man’s gaze is sharp, but his demeanor is calm. He’s aware that Ren is a dangerous person, but he’s not looking for a fight.

 

As the man settles into the seat across from him, Ren wonders if he even knows how to fight. He can’t be older than twenty-five.

 

The man pulls out a red binder from his bag. It’s an inch and a half thick with _Solo, Benjamin H._ printed on its spine. He opens it and takes out a blue fountain pen from his breast pocket.

 

“My name is Finn,” the man says. “Is it alright if I call you Ben? Or would you prefer Mr. Solo?” His tone is smooth, professional, like he’s done this before.

 

When did they start letting children run these operations?

 

“Can I have a cigarette?” Ren asks.

 

Finn pulls out a silver cigarette case from his inside coat pocket, then slides it and a purple lighter across the table. Ren lights up and inhales, deep and long. The calm that pulls over him is such a missed comfort that his eyelids flutter closed. There’s a bit of menthol around the nicotine, unexpected but not unwelcome. He takes another drag as Finn continues.

 

“Before we get started, I wanted to thank you on behalf of the Government of Great Britain and Northern Ireland for the return of former Minister Kenobi’s granddaughter.”

 

Ren taps off some excess ash and leans back in his seat. “How is she? Rey?”

 

“Miss Dalton is fine, Mr. Solo,” Finn says. Ren grimaces at that name. _Miss Dalton_ is as foreign as the Urdu he’s been hearing in the hallways since his arrival. “She’s recovering as we speak, and no. You’re not allowed to see her.”

 

The cigarette hisses as Ren takes a drag. Somehow hearing the words aloud makes his stomach squirm.

 

“What about everyone else?” he asks.

 

Finn raises an eyebrow. “Who else?”

 

Ren exhales and the smoke trails from his nose. He scowls and says, “My team.”

 

Finn doesn’t answer right away, and instead lays his pen on the page before lacing his fingers together.

 

Ren shudders, but tells himself it’s from the cold.

 

“Do you know why you’re being questioned today?” Finn asks.

 

Ren points to the binder. “Open that up to any page and take your pick of reasons why the American government wants to have a chat with me.”

 

Finn presses his lips in a thin line. “We need your account of the accident.”

 

Ren scoffs. “Is that what we’re calling it?”

 

“You don’t think we’d actually bomb our own extraction target, do you?”

 

“Considering what’s happening in Nicaragua, I wouldn’t put anything past the Americans.”

 

Finn says nothing as he adjusts his coat, which Ren notices is a little too long on him.

 

“We didn’t plant that IED, Mr. Solo,” Finn insists.

 

“Maybe not directly,” Ren says, rolling the cigarette between his forefinger and thumb. He takes a quick drag.  “How long do you think you can keep that Saudi sheik on a leash?”

 

“Just tell me about the accident.”

 

Ren shakes his head, leans back and crosses his arms. “There was an explosion. Obviously. When I woke up, I was about fifteen feet from the Uazik, and I went to the first person I could find.”

 

“Miss Dalton?” Finn asks.

 

“Rey.”

 

Finn nods and writes this down. “Why didn’t you go to your teammates?”

 

Ren shrugs. “I saw her first.”

 

“Did you look for anyone else?”

 

Ren sets his jaw. Something hotter than the cigarette fumes burns inside him. He leans in and points to the white gash across his face. “I wasn’t thinking clearly.”

 

***

 

Blood and oil stained the earth.

 

The first Uazik in their convoy, a good ten yards in front of them, burned with flames that crackled and whooshed. He could feel its heat from all the way back here, could smell its burning carcass. The Uazik before him had flipped on its side: fluids dripping from its exposed underbelly. The fact that that’s _all_ the Uazik had done was a stroke so lucky that Ren considered the possibility of an all-powerful divine being controlling the universe.

 

His face pulsed to the beat of his heart. Something sharp and hot had lodged itself into his side, just underneath his ribcage, and each hitched breath seemed to pull it in deeper.

 

A few feet from Ren, Hux rose from the dust with his arm extended and cracked off _one, two, three_ shots from his Makarov. The Americans responded with a flurry of M16 rounds. Little clouds of red puffed from the Captain’s body as each bullet struck. He hit the ground with a solid _thump_.

 

Above the noise and commotion, he heard a cry— _Rey_. A realization struck him with perfect and sudden clarity. The Americans were only looking for Dameron, so they weren’t going to hear her.

 

He rolled over onto his belly and crawled toward the sound. Glass shards dug deep into his now exposed arms and shins. Blood dripped from his face and from his limbs, thick and slow. One arm in front of the next, _pulling_ him forward a bit. One leg _pushing_ him the rest of the way.

 

Rey’s upper arm was bent at a jarring angle. He didn’t have the keys to her handcuffs, so he couldn’t take them off. But, with shaking, bleeding hands, he pulled the cloth covering her face off.

 

Her face was swollen and cut and bloody, but she breathed. She breathed and she cried, but she was _alive_. He inched himself closer to her and pressed his forehead to hers. The relief that pulled him under was so intense that he found himself on the verge of tears as well.

 

He called out for the Americans.

 

***

 

Ren finishes the cigarette and stamps out the butt in the ashtray. As the smoke dies and the ash spreads, the want of another creeps up in the back of his throat.

 

Finn stops writing. He looks up, brows knotted. “Is that what you’re going to tell Moscow when they ask why you gave up their asset?”

 

Ren scowls at Finn. He runs his tongue over his teeth. The jostling air conditioner fills the silence as he considers what to say next.

 

Finn crosses his arms and mirrors his irritation.

 

The need for more nicotine pairs well with his inability to answer the question, so he asks for another cigarette. Surprisingly, Finn hands him the case and the lighter again. Ren takes a few drags. He runs his thumb over his brow and speaks.

 

“Why would Moscow know that I did that?”

 

Finn’s laugh is sardonic. “Why _wouldn’t_ they know?”

 

Finn keeps talking but Ren stops listening. He thinks this may be a bluff, but something shifts regardless. Ren drops the hand holding the cigarette to the table and casts his gaze to the ground. He becomes acutely aware of the possibility that his life, short and tragic as it may be, will end. Soon. He brings the cigarette to his mouth and takes another drag.

 

A word catches his ear and he asks Finn to repeat himself.

 

“Did I not pronounce his name right?” Finn asks. Ren shakes his head, dismissing his question. Finn flips through the binder regardless and looks back at his notes. “Private, ah yes, Filipov. Before he expired, we managed to contact a member of the Residence here and they spoke.”

 

The cigarette droops from Ren’s lip before he plucks it off and sets it in the ashtray. “What do you mean _expired_?”

 

“I mean ‘expired’ as in ‘no longer alive.’”

 

Ren’s heart strikes against his ribcage and a dull, throbbing pain radiates through his bones. He sets his jaw as his throat tightens. His question is hardly louder than the buzzing light above them, “And the others?”

 

“What others?”

 

He slams his fist on the table. “Arkady Ozerov and Lev Yablonsky! Are you all so _spectacularly_ terrible at your job that you don’t know who’s on my intelligence team?”

 

He’s standing now, unsure exactly when he came to his feet. He leans over Finn as if this were his own investigation.

 

This must be a new form of torture churned out by the mad scientists of Langley, Ren thinks. They could put a rag over his head and pour water down his throat and somehow, he thinks, it wouldn’t hurt as much.

 

“Sit _down_ , Mr. Solo!” Finn shouts. When Ren doesn’t stand down, Finn snaps to his feet too. The young interrogator’s jaw clenches.

 

Finn has to look _up_ at Ren to meet his eye. His coat is too large and his face is quite soft and Ren thinks the interrogator is just a child. But they’re _all_ still children, aren’t they? They’re children playing in a world that their parents and grandparents forged, walking down a path they never had a chance to choose.

 

The edges of Ren’s vision darken. His throat clicks as he swallows.

 

“Miss Dalton, Mr. Dameron, Mr. Filipov and you were the only survivors of the accident, and Mr. Filipov died of his injuries several days ago,” Finn says.

 

Ren slams the table to the side, into the wall. The cigarette bounces but stays in the tray. The smoke continues to waft towards the heavens.

 

Finn doesn’t move.

 

The intercom buzzes and the speaker requests Finn to step out for a minute. He does so.

 

Ren raises a trembling hand and runs it through his hair. He fumbles for the cigarette and smokes it down until he’s burning the filter.

 

His legs can’t hold his weight any longer. He slides down the face of the wall and curls into himself. _I’m sorry_ , he wants to say, but he doesn’t believe in the hereafter, and neither did they, and so such words would be meaningless.

 

He blinks and is vaguely aware of hot tears running down his face. Gripping a handful of hair, he shuts his eyes tight, holding back a wave of anguish and of nausea.

 

When he opens his eyes again, it’s not Finn who is before him.

 

It’s his mother.

 

“Oh, Benjamin,” she says. His resolve is like glass and it shatters at the sound of her voice, unheard for almost a decade. She drops her gaze to the floor and sighs. She sounds tired. “What am I going to do with you?”

 

 

**XXVII**

On one of Rey’s first fully conscious days, she is told the extent of her injuries: a broken humerus that required bolts to splint together, fractures along her forearm and on the back of her hand. The cast will come off in six months, but the prickling and burning, which runs all the way from the back of her neck to her fingertips, may take up to a year to fade—if it goes away at all. Her hearing though, has come back in great strides.

 

“But considering everything you’ve been through,” her physician had said, “the fact that you’re here at all is a goddamned _miracle_.”

 

Her physician is a small, round woman with silver hair and russet-colored skin, named Nadiya, who comes in every day to ask how Rey is feeling and where her pain is at. Nadiya never seems terribly interested in what she has to say, so Rey keeps her answers brief and neutral. But when Rey asks exactly what happened back in Afghanistan—because there is a cold, black hole where a memory should be—Nadiya simply marks a page on her clipboard.

 

Papa is in and out of the room, but mostly out. The process of her repatriotization, of her resurrection, is an arduous task, especially since it’s a two hour drive to the city of Peshawar. Even though he is a former member of the Foreign Ministry, the wheels of bureaucracy are large, heavy things. They can only inch forward.

 

To be honest, Rey prefers the days he’s not in. When he’s here, the silence that nestles between them is bristling, like there’s an extra charge of static electricity in the air. What do family members estranged for a decade even _begin_ to talk about?

 

So, they don’t talk. They play chess instead.

 

The afternoon sun is oppressive and the air is thick like soup when Papa returns next. As he sets up the game, Rey thinks that even if they _were_ capable of a full conversation, it’s too hot to talk.

 

Papa brings his chair close to the edge of her bed and she sits cross-legged; the magnetic travel-pack chess board lays between them. Rey has never been particularly good at the game, but it keeps her hands busy and her focus off of him.

 

The summer bugs rattle and chirp outside.

 

They’re barely ten minutes into their game when Papa takes her second bishop. She responds by moving a pawn forward.

 

He leans back, eyebrows knitted in either concentration or confusion, she can’t tell. “An interesting move,” he says softly.

 

Rey drops her eyes to her hands folded in her lap. She shrugs.

 

The hum of the fluorescent light isn’t loud enough to smother the sounds of crickets and other summer bugs outside.

 

“What’s on your mind?” Papa asks.

 

Rey shrugs again. _Inshallah_ , her silence is enough of an answer.

 

He nods, strokes his chin and looks off into the distance. He chuckles and Rey looks up at him, wondering what is so amusing.

 

“I’ve never known a Kenobi to be quiet,” he says. Papa is her mother’s father, so that makes her a Kenobi too, though the surname on all of her documents says _Dalton_.

 

Apprehension squirms in her stomach. This is precisely the subject she has wanted to avoid. Every time they attempt to have a conversation, they always come back to who Rachel Amelia Dalton was (rowdy, opinionated, curious to a fault, a _child_ ) and who she was supposed to have become (refined, scholarly, diplomatic, the bearer of the Kenobi legacy).

 

Rey wants to be that person for her grandfather, but she doesn’t know the alchemy necessary to turn a stone into gold. She fumbles with the seam of her blanket and wonders if she’s overanalyzing and putting her own expectations on her grandfather’s smiles and stories.

 

“You know, your mother, Cecilia, used to have an opinion for everything, even something as minute and inconsequential as the weather. She was absolutely hell bent on letting everyone know _exactly_ what she thought and why she thought it.”

 

Rey looks up and stops fiddling with the blanket. He doesn’t talk about her parents much.

 

Papa nods at her. “Even when she was a child, Cecilia was the most boisterous of us. She actually yelled at a neighbor once because he had thrown a tin can in the garbage. ‘That’s aluminum!’ she said. ‘Our boys need that!’” Papa looks at her, then beyond, captivated by the memory.

 

A warmth spreads across Rey’s chest and she drops her gaze again. Hassan had told her that her tenacity was second only to Maz’s. Rey must get it from her mother, then. A little bit of the vertigo that’s toyed at the back of her mind dissipates; she stands on slightly more solid ground.

 

“What about my father?” she asks.

 

Papa’s grin cracks into a fuller smile. The edges of his eyes crinkle. “Sean couldn’t have been more different from your mother,” he says. “The man hated confrontation.”

 

Rey frowns. “But he was a diplomat,” she says.

 

Papa holds up a finger to stop her train of thought. “Training to be,” he corrects. “He was just a junior member of Ambassador Whitteridge’s staff at the time. But he had potential to be great, cunning in his own right.

 

“On their own, your parents were wonderful, talented young people. But together, they were destined to take the stars.”

 

They don’t say anything for a stretch of time. A heavy weight settles over her shoulders, forcing her towards _something_ dark and unknown. It’s the same something that kept her awake at night in the orphanage in Kabul.

 

He leans forward to move a pawn; she takes it with her knight. His hand hovers over his bishop.

 

“How did they die?” she asks.

 

Papa stops. He drops his hand and rests his chin upon it. He is so still and so quiet for such a long time that Rey is certain that time itself has stopped.

 

But then his shoulders heave with a sigh and time becomes unstuck. He leans back.

 

Rey holds her breath.

 

“You all had only been there for a few months when it happened,” Papa says. He drags his hand down his jaw and years seem to etch themselves deeper into his face. “There is a difference, you must understand, between knowing when the Luftwaffe is going to drop their payload and knowing when a riot is about to break out.”

 

“Didn’t…weren’t they trained?” Rey asks. Something pulls at her. She’s never been a riot before, but she knows the sign of one brewing the way she knows if the clouds will bring rain or hail.

 

“The situation, we were told, was stable,” Papa says. “There was no _reason_ to learn.”

 

A rather macabre thought comes to her—that if her parents perished in a riot, they most likely did not die quickly or without pain. It makes her throat tighten and her body grow cold.

 

Papa’s eyes glisten as he continues. “When no one could find you after a few weeks, we thought you had been killed too. I wanted to come to Kabul straight away, to look for you myself, but—”

 

“Can I see them?” Rey asks. Her eyes sting with tears.

 

Papa laughs, but the sound is laden with sorrow. He taps his forehead with the base of his palm. “How could we have forgotten? Of course you can.”

 

He pulls his wallet from his inside coat pocket, opens it and gives it to her.

 

Rey is greeted by two beaming faces she hasn’t even seen in her dreams. The unfamiliarity of them makes her heart drop and the tears spill down her face. She covers her mouth.

 

The photo was taken before she was born—her mother’s stomach is large and round. _Sean_ and _Cecilia_ , she tells herself. _Mum_ and _Dad_.

 

They’re standing before a narrow brown house, wedged between a row of several other houses of the same height and color. Rey thinks she looks like her mother: it’s in her sharp jawline and small nose. But, she has her father’s hands.

 

Her father’s arm is wrapped around her mother’s shoulders. They’re young and they’re happy and they’re in love.

 

It hurts that this photograph will be the only image she remembers of them.

 

“They loved you very much, you know,” Papa says, bringing her back to reality. “I have other pictures back in London. You’re more than welcome to have any number that you want.”

 

There’s an implication in this statement that tears her away from the photo. “I’m going back with you?” she asks.

 

Her grandfather nods. “Yes. When you’re right and well, you’ll be coming home with me.”

 

As she looks back at the photograph, the word echoes in Rey’s mind— _home_.

 

 

**XXVIII**

He snaps his eyes open. When had he fallen asleep? And so soundly too?

 

His world comes back together slowly, piece by piece, as if he’s laying a mosaic. His cell is eight-by-eight, dark and cold. The bed isn’t long enough for his body, so he sleeps on the ground across the middle. He’s just outside Peshawar, in Pakistan, because the Americans _technically_ don’t have a presence in Afghanistan.

 

He reaches up to the corner and splays his fingers wide—he can hardly see the outline of his hand. The darkness is almost dense enough to grasp, so he tries. He imagines gripping it and pulling himself out of here and into the light. He imagines that on the other end of this rat hole is Hux and Ozerov, standing around and chastising for taking so long to get out. He pretends Yablonsky and Filipov are home with their families; they shouldn’t have been in Kabul in the first place.

 

Someone needs to tell their families what happened. It should be him. He should be in his dress uniform carrying a folded flag and a medal resting atop it, delivering the news. It would be a pathetically small gesture of absolution, but it would be _something_. Instead, a cog in the Moscow machine, a complete stranger, will tell Mrs. Ozerov and her children (Sasha and Vera) that her husband, their father died in a far away place.

 

When his arm drops, his fantasy dissolves.

 

 

**XXIX**

Rey is falling, falling, falling until her body seizes and her eyes snap open. Her jaw is clenched so tightly that she thinks she’ll crack a tooth. Her body is drenched in cold sweat and her heart races. She trembles under her blanket.

 

She sits up, leans against the wall and brings her knees up to her chest. Rey shuts her eyes tight and counts to ten, reciting a list of things Nadiya told her to say when reality only feels like a shadow of itself. She hums her song.

 

The world must think her thoughts are too loud because it starts to rain and makes a _shushing_ sound. Sunlight cracks the sky and turns the world a shade of soft blue.

 

She wonders how everyone is doing. Perhaps Nadiya’s distractedness is because she is also treating the Soviets and they simply fared worse than her.

 

Rey _would_ like to see them, especially Ozerov. She would like to tell him that she has found her family, that she won’t be alone anymore. She thinks he would be delighted to hear that. The mere thought of speaking with him again makes her smile a bit. He was kind to her. And in his own peculiar way, Ben Solo was also kind.

 

The wind rustling through the leaves shushes her again.

 

She stays like this, propped up and sitting, focusing on the rain for some time, until the door opens and Nadiya comes in. It must be eight on the dot.

 

Nadiya gives her a once-over with a raised eyebrow. “You look like you got hit by a truck, kid,” she says. “Did you get any sleep?”

 

Rey shrugs. “Not really.”

 

Nadiya _tsks_ and writes something down on her clipboard. “Come here.”

 

Rey nods and slides down the bed. She pulls her legs over the edge and lets her feet swing as Nadiya slips the blue cuff over her arm.

 

“Blood pressure’s a little high,”  Nadiya says as she releases the pressure with a hiss. “But that’s to be expected if you’re not sleeping.” She marks this too.

 

Rey chews on her bottom lip.

 

Nadiya adds, “I’m sure when you get back, Mr. Kenobi will make sure you see the finest shrinks in London.” She pulls out an encased thermometer from her breast pocket, pops off the tube and tells Rey to put it under her tongue. She takes her pulse while they wait for the mercury to rise.

 

Rey keeps her eyes on the ground and hardly pays attention to the fact that her temperature and pulse are “expectantly elevated.”

 

Nadiya disappears for a moment into the small washroom attached to the room to rinse off the thermometer. When she returns, Rey looks up.

 

“What about the others?” she asks.

 

Nadiya caps the thermometer and returns it to her pocket. “Dameron’s still in pretty rough shape. But he’ll pull through.”

 

Rey smiles at that—but Poe is only one half of her question. Nadiya’s continued avoidance of the subject makes her blood grow cold.

 

“But…the _others_ ,” she says. “The Soviets. How are they?”

 

Nadiya stops writing. The lines across her face soften as she slowly brings the clipboard down and sets it next to her on the bed. Her expression is enough of an answer.

 

It feels as though Rey has been dropped into a pool of icy mountain water.

 

It’s war, she supposes. People die. But mothers aren’t supposed to bury their children and waiting wives are supposed to be rejoined with their husbands. They had captured her, sure, but they didn’t deserve to _die_. Not like that.

 

Yablonsky and Filipov were hardly older than she was. And Ozerov had children of his own—she had reminded him of them. He had shown her compassion.

 

Nadiya continues to speak, mentioning something about almost saving one of them, but Rey isn’t listening; her attention is on the linoleum floor. It’s as if she has curled up inside her body into someplace dark. It’s as if she’s watching the world go by through a crack in the corner of a wall.

 

Somehow, it’s still raining. She can hear its quiet demand, _shush_.

 

Rey feels her lips move and her voice crack. “I should have died too.”

 

She watches a flurry of scenarios in her mind’s eye; she feels each one unfolding. Bleeding out on the side of the road, the blast tearing her into small pieces, burning to death. Each image is completely logical. It is _this_ universe, the one where she lives and the worst that’s happened to her is a broken arm, is absurd. This must be a dream. Purgatory. Hell.

 

Rey gasps for breaths as Nadiya drops to her knees and takes Rey’s hands into her own. “Hey, hey, hey, hey. Shh. Shh. You’re fine. You’re alive.”

 

Rey holds her breath. She squeezes her eyes shut, counts to ten and then opens them again. Nothing has changed. She breathes.

 

“How?”

 

Nadiya furrows her brow, shocked and confused. “Has no one told you?”

 

Rey grips the mattress and shakes her head.

 

Nadiya curses under her breath. “Listen, kid. I don’t know a lot of details.”

 

“How…am I still…alive?”

 

Nadiya sighs. “We weren’t…the target was Poe Dameron. They weren’t expecting you, so they weren’t looking for someone other than him. One of the Soviets got their attention.”

 

“ _Who?_ ”

 

“It was Ben. Ben Solo. He found you in the wreckage and signaled them.”

 

The air escapes Rey. It’s replaced by a heavy weight as a thought clicks into place. By looking for her, Ben had sacrificed precious minutes that could have been spent looking for, perhaps even reviving his team. This is a burden she wishes she did not have to bear.

 

Nadiya nods, taking her silence as confusion. “He might have defected, kid, but it seems as though there’s still some light in him.”

 

 

**XXX**

The door to his cell opens, swathing him in orange light. Even though it’s just a single halogen bulb, it’s more light he’s seen in days. He picks himself off the ground and blocks the brightness with his arm.

 

“You’re wanted,” the intruder says. Ren doesn’t protest as he’s dragged from the cell.

 

The intruder, a squat burl of a man, throws him into the cold interrogation room and Ren has to backpedal to catch his balance. The heavy metal door closes with an echoing click. Ren readjusts his scrubs, huffing at the door. “Asshole,” he mutters.

 

He wonders if they’ve found someone more competent to interrogate him than Finn. He turns and dread rolls through him, thick as mercury.

 

His mother sits across from him, waiting. She looks up slightly from her papers as though his presence were no more inconvenient than a mosquito.

 

Leia Organa tries very hard to hide her emotions, but she always fails. Some trace of sadness, glee, or annoyance always slip through her otherwise steely demeanor. Even after nearly ten years away, Ren knows how to read his mother’s carefully constructed visage.

 

She’s pissed.

 

So’s he, but that’s beside the point.

 

Ren leans against the wall and crosses his arms. They glare at each other. Her hair is greyer than he remembers, but she is still shockingly small.

 

“Sit down, Benjamin,” Leia says, eyes still on her papers.

 

He doesn’t move. _Benjamin_ is not his name. It hasn’t been for years.

 

She looks up and there is no barrier for her irateness.

 

So he digs in.

 

“This must be a lot harder since it’s _your_ kid across from you,” Ren spits, “and not some kind of criminal.”

 

“Well, Ben,” Leia says, “you are a criminal.”

 

Ren shrinks a little. He sets his jaw.

 

He has imagined his reunion with Leia Organa many times over the past seven years, but in every scenario, he’s never this quiet. He’s never this still. Perhaps, he thinks, it’s for the best.

 

Leia presses her lips together and shakes her head. “Don’t you dare think, even for a second, that just because you saved that girl, you’re somehow absolved of everything else you’ve done.” She flicks her fingers at him, as if to toss the last seven years back at him.

 

She doesn’t say anything as she looks him over. “I still can’t believe it,” she says. “Not even seeing you here with my own eyes.”

 

He could say the same, but he doesn’t.

 

“You could have been one of those punks from the Underground, but you _actually_ become a Soviet.”

 

Ren scowls. “You’d rather I blow up federal buildings?”

 

Leia shrugs. “Better a building than a child.”

 

Something hot ignites in Ren. He pulls his arms in tighter.

 

“Your handler was Vassily Snegiryov, right?” Leia asks. “You _had_ to have killed at least _a_ child.”

 

“What do you want?” Ren snarls.

 

Leia waves her hand in his direction, dismissing his question. There’s a bit of a curl in her lip. She rearranges the things on the table, tapping a small pile of papers and sets them aside. In its own way, _this_ is familiar. _This_ is comfortable.

 

How many times had she done the same thing when he had asked her how long this next assignment would last?

 

“I’m not here for anything, Ben.” Her voice is soft and she doesn’t look up. “I’m just here to talk.”

 

His indignation cracks and he steps off the wall. “Fuck you,” he says through gritted teeth.

 

Leia snaps her head up.

 

The cold air is dry and static. The florescent light rings in his ears.

 

“You want to _talk_?” he sneers quietly. He takes a step forward.

 

“Yes,” Leia says. “It’s been almost eight years.”

 

Ren snorts. “Eight fucking years.”

 

“I just wanted to know, Ben—”

 

“No, no, no.” He shakes his head and with his hand cuts her statement down. “ _You_ have no right. Not when _I_ still have questions for _you_.”

 

She leans back, sweeps her arm wide, welcoming his inquiry.

 

There are thousands of things he could ask, but only one very simple question stands out. As far as he’s concerned, it is the beginning of _this_. All of it.

 

When he was fourteen, curious and confused, his mother found something of concern in his foot locker, so she made a phone call. The next week, he stood at the airport with a duffle bag in one hand and a one-way ticket in the other. She had patted his head and told him to be good for his uncle, to keep his eyes open and to learn. Luke Skywalker, Esquire, just needs help with some paperwork and around the office, she had said.

 

He was fourteen and terrified and called every day asking when he could come home.

 

“Why the fuck did you send me to Mississippi?”

 

Leia cocks an eyebrow. “I told you why then. You needed to learn—”

 

“A _church_ blew up while I was there!” his voice cracks. Leia doesn’t seem moved. “And that’s not even the worst thing I saw.”

 

Leia comes to her feet. She has to crane her neck to look him in the eyes. “So you could learn how fragile all of _this_ is.” She pinches her fingers together as if to hold the delicate tenets of the Constitution itself. “That me and your uncle and countless other people work tirelessly, endlessly, _bleeding_ in service to democracy. Because it faces threats from every front. Because it needs _all_ of us to do our parts.”

 

He dips low to get in her face. “I was fourteen and all I had was a copy of the _Manifesto_. What could I have possibly done?”

 

“Don’t lie to me. You had more than that.”

 

He strikes the table’s top. “ _I was fourteen years old!_ ”

 

“It’s not what you did! It’s what you were capable of doing!” Leia screams back.

 

He takes a step back, insides roiling.

 

She retreats as well by leaning against the table and gripping its edge. She crosses her legs and looks to the corner beside him. “You were too smart,” she says. “Clever. Always sneaking around where you shouldn’t be. Yes, you were only fourteen, but you needed _guidance_.”

 

Ren tries to steady his breath. His hands betray his rage. Or maybe it’s just that cold in here.

 

Leia shakes her head. “But, I see my efforts have been in vain, because here you stand before me, an agent, a commanding officer within the KGB.” She spits the name.

 

“I didn’t even know it was possible to fuck up that badly.”

 

Leia curls her lip. “ _You_ were the one who fucked up, Ben,” she says. “I laid the groundwork. I made you who you are. _You’re_ the one that left.”

 

“What choice did I have? After Reese—”

 

“You weren’t going to be drafted, you stupid, stupid jackass. You couldn’t have been! You know why? It wasn’t because you were in college. I _personally_ made sure your name wasn’t in the lottery.”

 

“Fuck you.”

 

“I would think a _thank you_ is in order. But if you wanted to go so bad, you could have signed up yourself!”

 

“For a stupid fucking reason like ‘containing’ communism? Give me a fucking break, Mom.”

 

“You are just like your goddamn father,” Leia hisses. She bares her teeth like an animal.

 

“I’m nothing like Dad.”

 

“You both left!” Leia shouts. “You’re both indignant. Stubborn. Pompous and self righteous. How am I supposed to see a difference? Why the fuck did you leave, Benjamin?”

 

Ren remembers echoes of Faz’s question to him—changing the world and all that idealistic nonsense twenty-somethings always chase after. It seems so blithely innocent now, so cruelly naive.

 

“I left for my own reasons,” he says quietly. “Simple as that. I went for me.”

 

“Your _own_ reasons.” Leia considers this for a minute and nods. “Right. Of course. _Bad_ ones, naturally, because it’s you. But your own. Whatever makes you sleep better, dear.”

 

“I tell myself the same thing you tell yourself when you think about Agent Orange. When you think about Pinochet and the Shah.” He stops. Narrows his eyes. “How many children have _you_ killed?”

 

“Excuse me?”

 

“You say you’d rather me blow up buildings than children. But, I have to ask you. Honestly.  How much blood is on _your_ hands?”

 

“You selfish little prick.”

 

He grabs the back of one of the chairs and hurls it behind him. It crashes against the wall, against the floor.

 

“ _How much, Mom?_ ”

 

She slaps him. Right across the face. It stings and the sound echoes and tears immediately spring up in his eyes. Ren runs his fingers across his sore, heated cheek as he regains himself.

 

She has never hit him before.

 

Leia points at him with her reddened hand. “You have _no_ right. You have no idea how hard I had to work to get where I got, to give _you_ a life of privilege and position.” She stops. Pulls back for a second as her face softens with recognition. “Jesus _fucking_ Christ, Ben. Is that why you left? Was I not a good enough mother to you? Did I not hug you enough? Tell you that you were special enough?”

 

He’s almost offended that she thinks it’s something so simple.

 

Ren doesn’t say anything until his cheek has cooled.

 

“I _am_  Anakin Skywalker's grandson,” he says. A smirk plays at the corner of his mouth. “Betrayal goes all the way to my DNA. What did you think was gonna happen?”

 

Leia’s expression crumbles. Her jaw drops a bit and her shoulders droop. It’s the final nail to drive it all home—a reminder to his mother that no matter how hard she works, no matter how far she runs, she can never escape the reality that is her bloodline.

 

She approaches him, brings her hands close to his face. He thinks she’s going to hit him again, so he jerks back and tenses his arm, preparing to block her blow.

 

But Leia doesn’t move. She doesn’t even speak. It’s almost as though she’s physically incapable of doing so, because English doesn’t have a word that could possibly bridge this gap or fill this silence. No language does.

 

The light above hums and buzzes. One of the fluorescent tubes flickers.

 

Slowly, she drops her hands and Ren exhales. Leia drops her gaze, shakes her head and steps away from him. She crosses her arms and turns her back to him. He leans over the table and counts the speckles in its pattern. Ren’s mouth is dry and the back of his neck burns furiously.

 

His mother sighs, a sound as quiet as a breeze.  After another pause, she finally speaks, “We…we tried, Ben.”

 

Leia’s voice is soft and brittle, and Ren would be lying if he said some part of him didn’t want to reach out and comfort her. But what an incredibly cruel thing to say— _we tried_ —among the broken shards of a family, of a life. He looks at her. Her back is still facing him.

 

“I…I never thought you were a disappointment,” she says. She might as well have taken the piece of shrapnel from his side and dug it in deeper.  “Just…misguided.” She drops her face into her hand and is quiet again.

 

“Then why…” he says, voice fading.

 

His mother turns to him. Her eyes are glossy, but Leia Organa does not cry.

 

There is just simply nothing to say.

 

Leia shakes her head again. She crosses the room and her sneakers squeak against the linoleum. She walks past him and Ben catches a note of orange and ginger. She hasn’t changed much. The door opens with a creak and closes with a snap. It’s the last time Ben will see his mother.

 

 

**XXXI**

One morning, Nadiya tells her Poe is finally well enough to accept visitors. He’s been held in a room upstairs, down the hall. When she’s not playing chess with her grandfather, Rey is spending her time there. Each time she’s visited him, there’s been another person already in the room. A young man, not much older than her, named Finn.

 

Finn maintains Poe’s case files and is his primary point of contact to headquarters. It’s a rare occasion he gets to travel, but Ms. Organa wasn’t leaving Washington without him by her side.

 

The three of them often find themselves sitting in a ring, passing around snacks of one kind or another, sharing stories.

 

“This guy,” Poe gives Finn’s shoulder a little shake, “got me out of Tehran before shit really hit the fan.”

 

“My first assignment,” Finn says. “1977, an _easy_ Embassy assignment, but then—” he snaps his fingers “—it goes up just like that.”

 

“The Agency was ready to pull the plug on the whole operation and leave me there. If it wasn’t for Finn and Leia, I wouldn’t have gotten out of the Embassy until, oh, the beginning of this year with everyone else.”

 

“We always go back for our own.” Finn offers Poe his fist; Poe taps it with his own.

 

Finn has a gentle smile, an infectious laugh and boyish charm. He is a loyal friend and, it seems, an incredible agent. Rey likes him tremendously.

 

***

 

Five more days pass. When Papa comes to visit her again, he informs her that the wait is finally over. The paperwork is done enough and she is Rachel Amelia Dalton, citizen of the United Kingdom, once more. They are to leave that evening.

 

As a gift to mark such a momentous occasion—and to avoid suspicion at the airport—Papa presents her a new dress. It takes some wrangling to get into, what with her cast and all, but it fits, and when she turns, the skirt billows.

 

The dress is the bright and cheerful color of Kabul skies after it has rained. The skirt graces by her knees, the neckline hits just beneath her collarbone and a thin ribbon of the same color wraps around her waist. The skirt is made of taffeta; the bodice of lace. It is, without a doubt, the finest piece of clothing she has ever owned.

 

Later that afternoon, there’s a knock on her door. In a slight alteration of normal events, it is Poe who has come to see her.

 

He stands in the threshold, leaning on his cane. Golden, late-afternoon sun spills into the room; the light catches the silver around his temples, the creases around his eyes. Rey often forgets that he is ten years older than she is. She wonders if he has ever considered retiring, or if he will dutifully follow Leia Organa’s orders to the grave.

 

“Nice dress,” he says.

 

She feels her cheeks warm as she fidgets with the skirt. “Thank you,” she says. “Um, Papa got it for me because—”

 

“You’re leaving,” Poe finishes.

 

Rey sighs. “Yeah. Tonight.”

 

Poe’s laugh is dry and hollow. “Jealous doesn’t even begin to cover how I feel.”

 

“Don’t be too upset,” she says. “Honestly, I’d rather go back to Kabul.”

 

Poe smirks. “But you’ll love London.”

 

“That’s what everyone keeps saying.” No matter how many times she’s heard it, it doesn’t stop her stomach from coiling in at the thought of living in such a foreign place, of leaving _here_. Rey chews her bottom lip. “You…you’ll write, yes?”

 

“As often as I can, Sunshine.”

 

“And Finn too?”

 

“I’ll be on his ass if he doesn’t.”

 

They smile at each other, but it fades quickly. Rey has never been particularly good at farewells. No one is, she supposes.

 

“But…I do,” she starts. She drops her eyes to the ground and sighs heavily. She picks at the hem of her skirt. “I do have to ask.”

 

Poe stands up a little straighter. “What’s that?”

 

She brings her gaze to meet his and can’t quite find her breath. As her lungs begin to ache and her heart hammers against her chest in protest, the words spill out. “Why were you looking for me in the first place?”

 

Poe swallows. He looks at her for a long while, as if the answers were buried in her skin. “Yeah, I guess I should have realized you were going to ask me that sooner or later.”

 

He rubs the back of his neck with his good hand and starts.

 

“We were in Herat working on training exercises with the muj and I come across this one guy from the capital. Came all the way out there to learn how to fight the Soviets. We get to talking. He starts mentioning this girl—you, it turns out—and I’m thinking it might be the kid Leia had told me about. So, I make a call.

 

“Leia and I worked out a plan and I volunteered to execute it. It was off the books. Folks in Langley didn’t even know I was there until I was caught. Getting you out was for entirely selfish reasons. We probably could have done a better job of it, sure, but it…” Poe bobs his head, like he’s wading between two options of things to say. “It was the right thing to do. It _felt_ like the right thing to do at the time, anyway.”

 

Rey thinks back to their conversations in his room with Finn— _we always come back for our own_.

 

She crosses the room to embrace him. It’s awkward and stilted because of her cast and his various injuries, but it’s warm. She has never blamed him, never casted any doubt that his intentions were impure.

 

“Thank you,” she says into the crook of his neck.

 

He grips her tighter.

 

***

 

It’s a fourteen hour flight to London from Peshawar with a two hour stop in Ankara, so the sooner they hit the road, the better. She and Papa slide in the backseat of a boxy, tan Toyota hatchback. As their driver ignites the engine, Rey turns over and looks out the back window.

 

Finn is standing outside. Poe is in the doorway. She waves at them and they wave back. She keeps waving until the car makes a turn and she loses sight of them.

 

 

**XXXII**

Leia opens her curtains, revealing a Peshawar slowly coming to life under the setting sun. Cars streak down the boulevard in reds and whites. Despite the encroaching evening, the sun’s rays are still hot. The radio behind her plays some local tune she can’t quite understand. Her Urdu isn’t nearly as refined as her Russian. She finishes her glass of wine.

 

Maybe that’s enough of a sign that it’s time to stop.

 

She’s about halfway through the bottle of Shiraz and pours herself another glass. Taking a sip, she looks to her phone—not the courtesy one from the hotel, because Langley _and_ the ISI have that bugged. No, the phone that’s caught her attention is a boxy satellite phone that she’s made extensively and expressly clear is to remain secure.

 

There’s only one number she can call. It rings twice.

 

“You only call this number when it’s an emergency,” the man on the other end says.

 

Leia sets down her wineglass on the end table as her stomach tightens. She doesn’t nearly call him enough, but who has the time anymore for personal calls?

 

“Well, Lando,” she retorts. “I would say that this is a bit of an emergency.”

 

“If you tell me this call has to do with your son, I’m hanging up right now.”

 

“Wait, but—”

 

“Goodbye, Leia.”

 

“Listen to me,” she demands sharply. The other line is quiet, but she knows he hasn’t hung up. “Lando, he’s my _son_.”

 

Lando sighs. “He’s radioactive.”

 

“The Dutch take in political refugees—”

 

“Don’t try to spin it that way, Organa. There’s a difference between a _political refugee_ and a person who commits _treason_ against the two biggest superpowers in the world.”

 

“Lando, I didn’t call you for a _no_.”

 

“And I didn’t pick up for a _yes_.”

 

She leans against the headboard and mutters under her breath, cursing the man’s unspoken _won’t_ under his defensive _can’t_.

 

“I’m not asking you as a field officer.”

 

“I know you’re not. But, I can’t—”

 

“And _I_ can’t lose him too. Not after everything else. I will not.”

 

There’s a long stretch of silence. She finishes her glass and pours herself another. “You know, even if I _can_ get something done, you probably won’t be able to speak to him again.”

 

It sounds like a concession, but she’s been in the game too long to get her hopes up.

 

“I don’t think I’d want to anyway. He had to do something spectacular to get their attention in the first place, and if Vasiliy really was his handler, then it had to be…unspeakable, I’m sure.”

 

“Then why go through all of this if he’s caused you so much strife?”

 

She’s curious what her answer will be just as much as Lando is. Leia pauses and takes a large swig of wine. She must be losing her touch if the edges of her vision are already blurring.

 

“They’re not going to let him leave this compound, you know that.”

 

Lando scoffs. “I’m actually surprised that something hasn’t already happened.”

 

Leia makes a small sound in agreement. A realization twists around her heart as she says, “What kind of mother sends _their own_ child to the gallows?”

 

“There are plenty of examples I’m sure you could draw from.”

 

“ _Lando_.”

 

They fall quiet again. Leia finishes her glass and considers pouring another, but stops.

 

“You’re going to get me fired one of these days, you know that?” Lando says. His voice contains surrender.

 

The relief that collects in her chest is cool and rushing. There is a real possibility she is aware of, that Lando won’t actually be able to do anything, but she revels in the _maybe_ of that statement. He’s going to try.

 

“You hate your job, Lando Calrissian. Consider this a favor.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One last chapter. I'll see you guys on the flip side.


	6. Catch and Release

 

**EPILOGUE**

 

We Afgantsy talk among ourselves about things which those who were not in Afghanistan may not understand, or will understand in the wrong way.

—Vitali Krivenko

 

 

Home is a name, a word, it is a strong one; stronger than magician ever spoke, or spirit ever answered to, in the strongest conjuration.

—Charles Dickens

 

 

 

Ben Kenobi dies in 1984, aged 78 years.

 

It’s a quiet memorial service, not because Mr. Kenobi didn’t know or keep good relations—there were a great number of folks who considered him a dear friend. It’s just that most of Mr. Kenobi’s friends and family have already been laid to rest.

 

Leia’s absence is felt, but she’s back in Pakistan, remote and unreachable. Poe and Finn are on either side of Rey as the casket is lowered into the ground.

 

After the service and after the wake, it feels strange to be in his house, so Rey goes outside to the small, square patio. She leans on the banister while the sun beats on her exposed shoulders and the wind whispers through her hair.

 

With a slide of a screen door, Poe and Finn join her. Finn offers her a cherry soda, which she accepts. Poe lights up a cigarette.

 

“So…” Finn says. “What now?”

 

Rey peels the soda’s label and looks down into the bottle’s contents. She has a meeting with Papa’s lawyers on Tuesday to discuss her inheritance. That’s about as far forward as she’s thought.

 

“If it were me,” Poe says, flicking the ash from his cigarette, “I’d go on vacation.”

 

“You’re in Riyadh tomorrow, right?” Finn asks. Poe scoffs and takes another drag before answering in the affirmative.

 

“Please, Rey, take some time out for yourself and let me live vicariously through you,” he says.

 

“A vacation does sound nice,” Rey says before taking a sip of her soda. She isn’t sure where she would go, only knows that it doesn’t feel right to stay here. The house was Papa’s. She merely slept in the room painted green on the second floor.

 

Wherever she decides to go, she wants to be near the ocean.

 

***

 

Rey goes to the Netherlands for a week, but before she returns to Britain, she stops at the consulate and takes an application for a residence visa. As she fills it out, Rey can’t tell if she’s running away from the past or towards the future.

 

She signs it. It doesn’t matter.

 

There isn’t a cloud in the sky that day in June when her train pulls into Rotterdam. As she steps off the platform, she takes a deep breath and smiles.

 

She finds a studio on the edge of town and spends the next few weeks settling in. She puts up yellow wallpaper along the side with the creaky window, and in the sill sets little pots of succulents and herbs. On her bedside, Rey keeps a framed photo of her with Papa in Dover, as well as a small picture of her parents on their wedding day.

 

***

 

Rey likes people—she always has—and will strike up a conversation with just about anyone. She makes friends at the electronics store where she works, during Dutch classes at night, at the coffee shop on the corner of her block, on the bus.

 

When they ask her where she’s from, Rey spins them a tale of normalcy. But a realization hits her one day that her stories haven’t changed at all. They’re scripted things that don’t sound at all like a spy novel. She smothers the nagging feeling in her heart with cheap tequila.

 

***

 

Robin is a friend who comes by frequently with either gossip or cookies. Hadley invites Rey to poetry club. Jacob from class tries to date her, but though he’s sweet and kind, in the end they make better friends than lovers.

 

When Robin is promoted at work, the three celebrate at Rey’s apartment with drinks and treats and happy spirits. As she laughs at one of Hadley’s stories, a warm feeling settles into Rey’s heart that has nothing to do with her alcohol. Things are finally starting to come together.

 

***

 

In July of 1986, Rey runs into him on a trolleybus. At first, she thinks her daydreams, her nightmares, have started to spill into reality, but she had never seen him with that twisted, hideous, unmistakable scar. Despite better judgment, she says hello.

 

He doesn’t go by Kirill or even Ben now. His name, he tells her, is Sam. “They let me pick it myself,” he whispers to her, just barely over the trolley’s rumble.

 

Thier conversation is awkward and stilted and no more personal than the current state of the weather. When she reaches her stop, he asks her for her number, and after a brief moment of consideration, she gives it to him. The next day he asks her to dinner.

 

At the restaurant, they are just as stilted, but their glass of wine leads the way to comfortability. They talk about their jobs, their co-workers they don’t particularly like, their friends. When he smiles, there’s no twist of sarcasm on his lips. The light catches the silver that now threads his hair and there are crinkles around his eyes.

 

Ben and Kirill are long gone. Sam is someone completely different.

 

When he calls again for dinner, she accepts. And again the following week. Sometimes she calls him and they’ll talk until one or the other falls asleep with the receiver in-hand.

 

It’s mid-August when Rey introduces him to her friends. Hadley asks him about the scar and he simply says, “From a car wreck a long time ago.” He reads from his script and Rey reads from hers.

 

The next afternoon is the first time they talk about Afghanistan.

 

***

 

Fall paints the city gold and winter casts it in white. Before they know it, a year has passed the world is green again. After a wet and miserable week, the sky is bright by Saturday and the sun glitters on the slow-moving river.

 

Rey and Sam stroll along the boulevards and their aimless meandering takes them to a bridge. As they cross it, he asks her how her classes are going.

 

“My Dutch is getting better,” she says, “but I’m losing my Dari.”

 

He doesn’t say anything in response, merely looks down and kicks a stray leaf to the side. She digs her hands into her pockets.

 

They stop at the crest of the bridge and Rey turns to take in the river that feeds into the bay. A car whirrs by on the other side. A bicycle bell chimes in the distance. The air is humid and briney; the breeze is cool.

 

His hand slides into hers. She stiffens.

 

Sam pulls his hand back and his cheeks are red. He apologizes, first in Russian, then in Dutch.      He still fumbles with languages when he’s flustered, and that makes her giggle. Rey takes his hands in hers again, brings his fingers to her lips and she kisses them. She looks into his eyes—they’re hazel in this light—and says simply, “Your hands are cold.”

 

He gazes at her as if he is brimming with a hundred different things to say. She has just as many things to say back to him.

 

After a moment, Sam dips down and kisses her.

 

***

 

Rey is with him as they watch tanks and soldiers draped in red hobble out of Afghanistan. “It’s fine,” he slurs over the rim of a brandy tumbler. “Afghanistan is where empires go to die, after all.”

 

The wall that cuts through Germany’s capital is taken down brick by brick. Elation is so contagious that Rey can’t stop smiling, but Sam finds it hard to celebrate.

 

***

 

They stay in this December 25. It’s 1991 and they just want to be alone.

 

It’s nearly midnight, but that doesn’t stop their one year old from waking up and fussing. Rey scoops the child up and the little one blubbers into the crook of her neck as she brings him into the living room. She kisses his temple and rocks him back and forth, but sleep will not come to him.

 

Rey catches what her husband is watching so intently on the television. It’s a shot of the Kremlin, the scarlet fortress in the middle of Moscow, and a tremor runs through her. There’s been talk of this happening all year.

 

When she settles on the couch next to him, their child squirming in her arms and reaching for him, Sam (Ben, Kirill) wraps his arm around her waist and pulls her close.

 

The red banner descends in silence. After a moment, a new flag rises: white, blue and red. These colors haven’t flown over a Russian capital in almost one hundred years, he tells her.

 

In Moscow, a clock tower rings the hour. Midnight. A new day.

 

—

 

конец | the end


End file.
